


A Monstrous Regiment

by AMarguerite



Series: A Monstrous Regiment [1]
Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Emma - Jane Austen, Mansfield Park - Jane Austen, Persuasion - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Age of Sail, Battle, Colonel Fitzwilliam has some period-appropriate Opinions that get overturned, Dragon Riders, Feminist Themes, Gen, Napoleonic Wars, Regency, War, alternate title: Charlotte's Great Escape, badass Elizabeth Bennet, he learns, he's a good dude though, so be forewarned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 94,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10574634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: General Wellington selects Colonel Fitzwilliam for a very singular honor during the Spanish Campaign: working with dragons-- and, in particular, with Captain Elizabeth Bennet, of His Majesty's Dragon, the Longwing Wollstonecraft.Temeraire/ Pride and Prejudice crossover entirely to have Elizabeth Bennet as a dragon captain during the Peninsular War, with Charlotte Lucas as her uber-capable first lieutenant.





	1. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam meets Captain Bennet

**Author's Note:**

> I've messed a little with what happened in 'Victory of Eagles,' (mostly in shoehorning a fourth Longwing into the Aerial Corps, and in messing with what Tharkay and the ferals were doing offscreen), and entirely made up what was going during the Spanish Campaign. I've likewise messed with the timeline of 'Pride and Prejudice, which ought to take place from 1812, and now instead exists in a wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey state where Elizabeth Bennet is 21 in 1809, and became a dragon captain at 19 in 1807. 
> 
> Word of God is that Elizabeth Bennet's dragon is named Wollstonecraft (http://io9.gizmodo.com/pride-and-prejudice-and-dragons-naomi-novik-wont-ever-1692471120), and in trying to translate the impact of British inheritance laws and customs on the Bennets to a universe where dragons are basically sentient flying airships, I've decided Elizabeth inherits her dragon from her mother's eldest sister. For a take where Elizabeth doesn't inherit, there's Beatrice Otter's "Lieutenant Bennet" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/143749).

_Portugal, 1809_

 

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Wellington, looking up from his papers, and nodding. “Pleasure to have you here on the Peninsula, sir.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed, bemused and bewildered at being received in an open-sided tent, with a bright blue and pale green dragon snoozing behind the Duke of Wellington’s desk, rather than inside the actual building commandeered as headquarters. “A pleasure to serve, Your Grace. I only regret it took so long to get the regiment here.”

“A delay in transport is not an unexpected consequence of Napoleon’s own dragon sinking the bulk of the British navy,” said Wellington, dryly.

The dragon behind him raised her head and said, “I still think it would be possible to use heavy-weights for transport across the channel.”

“All the way to Portugal?” asked Wellington, interested. “You’d need at least two way stations at sea; even a courier cannot fly from Plymouth to Oporto in one go. But—” turning back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “I am glad of you, sir. I recall your being of invaluable assistance when the men refused to let dragons carry them.”

“I did, Your Grace, and thank you for the compliment.” Colonel Fitzwilliam knew Wellington was not one for excess speech, unless it was clever, and, feeling fatigued from the week of sea travel, and the two days of haranguing a sea-sick regiment into parade ground order, did not add more than, “Though I must confess, I did very little.”

Wellington leaned back in his chair. “Little, d’ye call it? You manage to integrate Captain Tharkay’s ferals into a workable regiment, and were the first officer to climb aboard a dragon, in the evacuation of London! Longwing, was it?”

“The Longwing Wollstonecraft, Your Grace,” he replied. The event was seared into his memory— not only because of the mixed wonder and terror of being miles above the earth, strapped onto the back of a sentient flying lizard by only carabiners and leather straps, but because he had seen for himself that there were female officers in the Aerial Corps.

Until Wollstonecraft’s captain had reached out her gloved hand and said, in what was obviously a woman’s voice, “Almost there, Major Fitzwilliam!”, he had not believed the news going around the camp that the new Admiral of the Air was a Jane Roland, one of apparently many women who spent their lives fighting on dragon back as commissioned officers. The only female soldiers Colonel Fitzwilliam had known before then were not officially soldiers. They were the wives of officers or enlisted men, who took up their husband’s guns or duties with canons when their husbands no longer could. But the dragon captain had gripped his hand and pulled him up with an ease born of a lifetime of pulling men larger than her up the side of a dragon; and begun ordering him and her officers about so matter-of-factly and so competently he knew this wasn’t some sort of stunt. She had no doubt spent her life in the Aerial Corps and had earned the epaulettes on her bottle-green uniform coat. 

“Good,” said Wellington. “You will be working with Wollstonecraft’s division. It’s a smallish one; recovery from the Dragon Plague has hit us damned hard.”

The dragon said, “Yes, but it is an effective one. A Longwing, of course, supported by a Regal Copper behind, and two Yellow Reapers— one on each side— and twenty ferals. I suppose you are used to there being three heavyweights in a division, but there simply aren’t enough.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was not used to any heavyweight dragons in a division, but this did not seem like the proper time to mention it.

“Though it be little, it be fierce,” said Wellington. “I have a high opinion of the formation leader, Captain Bennet. Clever woman. Capable officer. A bit young to be made a captain, but she holds her own and is devilish quick in a fight. And why should she not be? She learnt from the best.” He consulted his notes. “She was a lieutenant on Excidium, under our own Admiral Roland, until December of ‘07, when Wollstonecraft’s first captain, one Elizabeth Gardiner, and Captain Bennet’s maternal aunt, died during Napoleon’s aerial invasion of England.” At Colonel Fitzwilliam’s puzzled look, Wellington explained, “Longwings are entailed on the female line. The beasts don’t accept any but female captains. Now, the Regal Copper has a female captain, too; Admiral Crawford had no children, only two nieces and a nephew, and damme for a Frenchman if the beast didn't go and refuse all but the youngest niece, Miss Mary Crawford!”

“Antiope knew her business,” objected the blue and green dragon. “The eldest girl was too timid, and the boy got altitude sickness the only time he went up. Only Captain Crawford was really suitable. She may not fight very well on her own just yet— I must have seen Captain Bennet knock the sword out of her hand half-a-dozen times now— but she has a very good head for strategy.”

“Captain, eh?” Wellington asked. “The Admiralty finally approve her?” He turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam with the explanation, “Miss Crawford's been gazetted Captain since her uncle died of wounds gotten at Shoeburyness, but _somehow_ the chaps at the Admiralty keep losing the paperwork to confirm her rank.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam knew this; it had been a great scandal in London that a society lady should, first of all, be forced to become an aviator; then when the society lady proved herself willing to be Antiope’s captain, lest Britain lose a heavyweight it could ill afford to part with, that the Admiralty should refuse to give her her proper rank. His elder brother’s wife, a friend of Miss Crawford’s, had no conversation on any other subject for weeks.

The dragon said, “Oh, Volly and Captain James brought the orders late last evening. That is why so many the aviators are either still drunk, or sleeping off drink."

Wellington continued on, “Among the crews are a number of female lieutenants and midwingmen, as well. You have a reputation for being a pleasant and most gentleman-like man; I trust you will ensure that every officer and every man under your command will treat these female officers as _officers_.”

“That is understood, sir, and an order I will most happily obey. Will the regiment be transported by heavy-weights?” He did not like the idea of traveling on a heavyweight, but he had managed it once before, and had only been sick from the awful combination of nerves, the terrifying speed of air travel, and altitude _after_ landing. Doubtless he could avoid this fate with repeated practice aloft, though this plan made him feel rather sick in advance.

“The regiment,” replied Wellington, “will be _fighting_ with middle _and_ heavy-weights. A grander version of what you did in... where were you stationed again?”

“Kent, at first, Your Grace; my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh—”

“—raised a militia there, I recall. She put the fear of God into her men. I only hope she managed the same effect with the French.”

“You are correct in all particulars, sir; though later we were forced to fall back to Derbyshire, where my cousin Darcy had also raised a militia, and thence to the Northern coast of England.”

“Did you work directly with the dragons in that slapdash brigade of yours?”

“No sir, Captain Tharkay nominally had the charge of them.”

Wellington’s mouth twitched. “Yes, _nominally_. Well, they minded him better than anyone else. It is a pity he is gone to New South Wales, on East India Company business. But your men are used to being around dragons, correct?”

“All the veterans are, Your Grace, though they are mostly used to being transported by them. My men worked very well with the courier weights.” They conformed to the enlisted men’s understanding of what dragons were: squabbling, flying reptiles, about the size of horses, that traveled in packs and made noises at each other like birds, and whose chief concerns in life were the acquisition of cows. This seemed impolitic to say before another dragon, so Colonel Fitzwilliam tried a tactful: “Aside from the evacuation of London, my men have not seen, or been much in company with dragons larger than, er... Lester I think, is the largest of the ferals. He is about the size of a mail coach.”

“I trust you will accustom them to the company of middle and heavy-weights,” said Wellington. “You have a month to integrate your regiment with a dragon formation. Use your time wisely.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam heard the finality in his tone and clicked his heels together as he bowed, preparing to depart.

But then the dragon stared up at the sky and exclaimed, “Oh, here is Excidium and Wollstonecraft now!” They abruptly found themselves engulfed in shadow. Colonel Fitzwilliam took a step back, out of the tent, and looked up.

Two enormous Longwings soared overhead, blocking the sun. Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a twinge of somewhat prehistoric fear, of early man before a carnivorous creature that could probably eat him, if not accidentally step on him; and wondered anew that the crew and riflemen moving about in the belly netting, and all the officers strolling the dragons’ backs, or swinging about the leather straps, should be so blasé about their positions, so high above the earth. Colonel Fitzwilliam had spent the few times he had ridden on dragon back gripping the straps of the harness and reminding himself very firmly of his duty to king and country.

“Perscitia,” said Wellington, returning his attention to his papers, “Pray find Lord Fitzroy and Colonel de Lacey, will you? Then be so good as to take my compliments to Admiral Roland and Captain Bennet; we will discuss tactics, since they are now arrived.”

The dragon winged away, and Wellington’s cadre of glittering, aristocratic aide-de-campes descended, bringing chairs, tea, maps, plans, and two female aviators in flying leathers, over the white trousers, the series of carabiners and leather straps worn about the waist and thighs in lieu of an officer’s sash, and the bottle-green coats of the Aerial Corps. Both women wore their hair in the proper military queues that Wellington, ever the beau, had eschewed for a fashionable crop, and wore their swords as easily as a society woman would wear her diamonds.

The taller woman had a scar across her face and neck that caused her left eye to droop, and made her seem annoyed and bored with whatever the men about her were saying. She pulled off her goggles, shrugged off her leathers, and tossed them at Lord Fitzroy Somerset’s head, revealing a chest full of medals, and the gold epaulettes and diagonal sash of an admiral of the air. The shorter, a pretty creature of perhaps one and twenty, likewise took off her own goggles and overcoat, but more civilly folded it over her arm and passed it to Colonel de Lacey in exchange for a cup of tea.

Wellington rose and nodded. “Admiral Roland. Captain Bennet.”

“Fine flying weather,” said Admiral Roland, waving away the tea offered to her. “No sign of French dragons, either.” She threw her muscular person into a camp chair with a slight groan before noticing Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had likewise risen to his feet. “New aide?”

“This is Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Wellington. “He’s worked with Captain Tharkay in Derbyshire and along the north coast. He is to be the infantry’s contribution of our Mixed Model Division.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed deeply. “Admiral Roland, it is a very great honor.”

Admiral Roland didn't bother to rise, and studied him speculatively. “Hm. Aren't you well turned out! Not that I expect anything else—” she added, as an aside to Wellington “— from you, Beau. I expect his father’s a Duke, or the like.”

“His father is the Earl of Matlock,” corrected Wellington. “Colonel Fitzwilliam has served with distinction in India and England. I expect he shall do the same in Spain. He is a living example of what we say when we refer to someone being an officer and a gentleman.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, surprised and pleased.

Admiral Roland snorted. “Well, colonel, you’ll do. Here is your counterpart, Captain Bennet. She is the living example of herself. Which makes her a good Longwing captain, and a _damned_ good choice for this chimera of a division we’re stitching together.”

Captain Bennet had been eyeing Colonel Fitzwilliam over the rim of her teacup, and, lowering her cup and saucer to Wellington’s desk, inclined her head. “Colonel.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam mirrored the nod and, unsure whether to call her ‘sir’ or ‘madam,’ settled on, “Captain.” He offered a friendly smile in addition to this; he had risen rather abruptly in the ranks to colonel during the French invasion, and well remembered how terrifying it had been to be thrust suddenly into command, in so dark a time, against what seemed to be so unbeatable an enemy. He was glad to know his counterpart had advanced in a very similar way. “We have met once before, when I was a mere Major Fitzwilliam. You were so kind as to give myself and my regiment a lift out of London in ‘07.”

“Oh yes! I thought I recognized your name. I must say, you managed your shock very well when you realized _I_ was captain of Wollstonecraft.”

Admiral Roland said, “At least the French invasion let us be done with that damned rigmarole. It makes everything much easier to have women serving openly in the corps.”

“Openly,” said Captain Bennet, with an arch look, “but acceptably? Aviators may be almost respectable now, but my mother still tells all the neighbors I am the companion to a veritable dragon of a woman.”

Wellington let out a bark of laughter, and Admiral Roland snorted.

“Someday, Lizzy,” Admiral Roland said, “your mother will be very proud of the truth of that statement. The Countess of Allendale had me over for dinner some three or four times, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth whenever someone cut up stiff about my trousers, and what was the end of it? All these fine ladies of the town were leaving me cards, and calling upon me, and you have got two female midwingman you had not got before.”

“That is very true,” said Captain Bennet, leaning her hip against the desk. “So, Admiral, General— how do we make your Mixed Model Division a reality?”

This was a complicated question, which lasted so long Wellington had the three of them (four, including Perscitia, who stuck her head in the window) to dinner. Colonel Fitzwilliam got back to his billet rather late, and woke to his batman, Pattinson, waving in his face a tangle of leather and sweet-smelling herbs.

“This was delivered from General Wellington’s headquarters, with his compliments, sir, or rather— with compliments from Copenhagen to Perrault?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam raised his head from the pillows and blinked. “From... his horse to mine? What the devil is he on about? Wellington isn’t the sort of man who ever drinks, let alone to excess. And certainly not on his own.” He doubted if they had gotten through two bottles of wine with dinner, or even a full bottle of port afterwards. He took the object from Pattinson and untangled it. “Ah,” he said, “a memory stirs. These are the newest version of the hoods that keep the horses from panicking around dragons. Blinders to keep them from looking up and seeing dragons; perfumed sachets to keep them from smelling dragons. See?

“I see, sir,” said Pattinson, looking distressed.

“Dislike it, Pattinson? It looks easier to attach to the bridle than the old one.”

“Dislike the, ah... implications,sir.”

“Oh?”

“The old ones,” he said, “worked just fine keeping the horses calm around the ferals. Just fine. This means new dragons. Bigger ones.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam could not deny this. Pattinson was extremely distressed as he dressed and shaved Colonel Fitzwilliam, and went so far as to sigh mightily as he went down to the stables.

The officers in the mess were scarcely less distressed; they had heard rumors they were to be fighting again with dragons, but as Colonel Fitzwilliam had not returned to the barracks until very late last night, there was nothing substantial to go on.

“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

There was an audible scraping of chairs, and clink of porcelain and silverware on wood as the officers and their wives all jumped to attention.

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lieutenant-colonel saluted and said, “Sir, we have been trying to determine if the new horse hoods we have been given are just standard issue, or if they mean anything?”

“A little of both, Gowing,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, taking his seat at the head of the table.

“That is kind of the quartermaster, but our horses _are_ used to the scent of the ferals, sir,” said Captain Wyndham of the light company.

“As are we,” quipped Mrs. Gowing.

“Except for Lieutenant Jeffries and Ensign Leigh,” said Major Lennox, avuncularly, to the polite laughter of the rest of the table. These two young newcomers to the regiment smiled, pleased at the teasing.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been trying to come up with some way to break the news of their new assignment, in a way that would not cause immediate panic, and settled on _sang-froid_. He was a little too nervous to be hungry, but he tapped the top of his egg with a light and unconcerned air for the sake of verisimilitude. “I am glad to hear it, Captain Wyndham; I depend upon your light company to lead us through Captain Tharkay’s maneuvers this morning.”

“And... where shall we be practicing them, sir?” Captain Wyndham asked, carefully. Captain Wyndham did most things carefully, a byproduct of his childhood in India, where his British father—a rake of the first water— had married the daughter of a Mangalore jewel merchant, in the hopes of satisfying some immediate and very pressing debts. Captain Wyndham could explain his browness from military life— first his father’s, then his own— rather than his parentage, but still, his native caution, and the implicit fear he might be found out as Not British, lingered. It made him a truly excellent commander of the light division— careful, cautious, always aware of the most likely dangers, and quick to diffuse or disarm them— and terrified of formal dinners or balls. Ever since finding out his secret, Colonel Fitzwilliam took extra pains to be kind, and to exaggerate his motions when picking up the right fork.

“We shall be practicing them on the grounds of the dragon encampment,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, remaining pleasant and unconcerned, or at least, sounding like he was. “Gentlemen, ladies— I came back too late last evening to give you a full account of General Wellington’s orders, but I shall do so now. We have an unusual task before us, but given our past successes, the skill of our officers, and the bravery of our men, I daresay we are more than capable of accomplishing it. As you may have guessed, we will once again be working with dragons.”

There was a mixed reaction to this, but Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing grinned and said, “Old Nosey that concerned about supplying our men with new boots?” which alleviated some of the tension.

“I daresay a great deal of it will be working out the best method of transporting a regiment, at the speeds the French have managed to achieve,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “We shall probably be able to manage much faster times, perhaps ten miles a day, with the regiment riding upon middle and heavy-weights.”

Someone dropped a fork, and another choked on his tea, but Colonel Fitzwilliam maintained his usual look of genial complaisance. “Admiral Roland assured me we should be very comfortable— much less crowded than when we load six hundred men on twenty small dragons.”

Major Lennox cleared his throat. “And, ah— are we taking orders from Admiral Roland, sir?”

“My orders come direct from His Grace, the Duke of Wellington,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. His own nervousness was ebbing; his officers had been shocked, but not to the point of mutiny. The mention of the Savior of England soothed them all yet further. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s stomach untied itself from the knots it had been in, and he began dipping toast soldiers into his egg. “We will be working with a dragon formation lead by one of Admiral Roland’s protégés, Captain Elizabeth Bennet, of the Longwing Wollstonecraft. It is the hope of both General Wellington and Admiral Roland that within a month, we will be able to integrate our regiment smoothly into the ordinary workings and attacks of the formation and vice versa, built upon our use of aerial support during the French invasion. And we have got a very fancy new title to go with it: the Mixed Model Division. Badges to be delivered tomorrow.”

It was difficult to say whether the officers or their wives were more astonished at the idea of so integrated a division, or the fact that Colonel Fitzwilliam’s counterpart from the Aerial Corps was a woman. He was at least prepared to defend the later, and gave the details of Captain Bennet’s career as she had relayed them to him the evening previous, over Wellington’s usual sparse dinner of roast mutton. His officers were not as interested in her participation in the Battle of Shoeburyness, or the Battle of the Nile— they were too flummoxed at how a woman could be a dragon captain to attend to her skill at being one.

“I do not claim to fully understand how the process works, but it appears that upon hatching, dragons attach themselves to one person particularly, their captain—”

“Imprinting like ducks,” offered Mrs. Bass, which set everyone a little more at ease.

“— yes, precisely, only they also accept, as captains, their first captain’s descendants. Longwings attach themselves only to women, so it is something like an entail on the female line. Captain Gardiner, who pulled Wollstonecraft from her shell, does not seem to have married, or had much hope of it.”

The table murmured vaguely at this; of course a woman like _that_ could not marry. One or two of the more headstrong ladies were heard to exclaim that Captain Gardiner and her fellow aviatrixes had sacrificed their very womanhood for the good of England and ought to be praised rather than pitied, for so noble a gift to one’s country.

Colonel Fitzwilliam pressed on, “About five years after Wollstonecraft had hatched, Captain Gardiner sought to secure the line of succession. Her youngest sister, a Mrs. Bennet, had five daughters, and the two of them settled upon Captain Bennet’s going into the service, as she was the second born, and then old enough to begin her training.”

The idea of a woman choosing such a life sat uncomfortably with all but the most independent of the officers’ wives; the idea of inheriting into it, as a preferable alternative to spinsterhood (for all five daughters of a mere Mrs. Bennet surely could not hope to marry, let almost marry well), aligned much better with everyone’s principles and understanding of right behavior and proper conduct.

“Five daughters,” said Mrs. Gowing, rather struck by this. “How odd! In the continent they send second daughters to convents, I think. We send ours to coverts.”

It was not the most sparkling of her wordplay, but everyone was ill at ease and wanted to laugh, so they did.

“How old was Miss Bennet when she began her training?” asked Mrs. Jenkins, an older woman, the wife of a major.

“ _Captain_ Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam corrected her, pleasantly, “was then seven, which both she and Admiral Roland assured me was the proper age to begin as a cadet, before becoming an ensign, a midwingman, a lieutenant, and then a captain. As Admiral Roland explained it, man was not made to fly; he— or she— must become accustomed to it as soon as possible, in order to be an effective aviator.”

The ladies murmured at this, finding it somewhat cruel, and even the gentlemen looked displeased with the idea of beginning one’s career so young. In the army, officers started as ensigns at sixteen.

“Which means,” concluded Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that Captain Bennet has fourteen years experience in the Aerial Corps— the exact same number of years I have been in the Army. I expect each and every one of you to give Captain Bennet the same measure of respect and deference you give me. Ladies— I know you are not bound by oath to obey me, but I myself have seen how narrow the gap is between being a soldier and being a soldier’s wife. Captain Bennet, Captain Crawford, Lieutenant Lucas, Lieutenant Fairfax—” he could not recall the names of the rest, and he rushed onto a quick “—and all the others have made the same sacrifices you have, but without ever being acknowledged for it, or having the comfort of family or respectability. I hope you will keep that in mind in your dealings with them.”

Mrs. Gowing, conscious of the fact that she was the lieutenant-colonel’s wife, and one of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s favorites, thought it right to speak first. “And why should their service not be respectable? Did not Boudica hold off the Roman forces on the back of a Xenica?”

“I do not think it right,” said Mrs. Jenkins, “that the government should require women to take up arms. It would be better to do without Longwings than to demand our sex behave in a manner so contrary to the laws of nature.”

“England would have been lost many times over without Longwings,” piped up the young wife of Captain Smith, trembling at her own audacity. “They— they— Sir Walter Raleigh used them against the Spanish Armada!”

“Sir Francis Drake,” corrected Mrs. Bass, who had once been a governess.  

“Yes,” said Mrs. Smith, flustered. “Sir Francis Drake’s fireships and all— they— without the Longwing Conflagratia spitting acid upon the ships, they— they would never have lit up, and the Spanish Armada would never have been defeated.”

“Because it happened in the past does not make it right,” said Mrs. Jenkins, coolly. “Henry VIII also went through six wives, which we, thank God, no longer find acceptable.”

“Here, here,” muttered some officers at the end of the table.

Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing cast a steely look at them and said, “General Wellington,  _the Savior of Britain,_ has told us to work with these officers. That is all _I_ need to know.”

Captain Smith, already roused in defense of his wife, said heatedly, “And I! Will obeying the direct orders of the Savior of Britain be a problem for anyone here?”

It clearly was for some, but everyone agreed, at least, that they would do their best to work with Captain Bennet’s formation.

Colonel Fitzwilliam finished off his toast, egg, and coffee and said, “Good. Gentlemen, have your men report to the square in an hour. We will march to the aerial encampment and spend the day practicing the maneuvers Captain Tharkay invented for us. Light company first; others as you think them ready. I rely upon you for an honest estimation of the skill of your men, and, above all, their comfort with dragons. I also ask you to remind your men that the female officers of the Aerial Corps are, first and foremost, _officers_ . They are to be respected and to be obeyed. If any new recruit protests at having to work with dragons, or with the female officers that allow us _to_ work with the dragons, get your most experienced sergant to tell him a story or two about our defense of Britain. Make sure the moral is, ‘They accept transport on dragons or they get left behind to face the French on their own.’” He paused for the titter of laughter to die down and asked, smilingly, “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!”s drifted like a choral round up to him.

The troops formed columns and marched from the barracks to the dragon tents put up on the outskirts of town. The aviators, always an informal bunch, lazily finished setting up practice targets in a field and hung about their dragons, watching curiously as the neat lines of redcoats turned from column to line with geometric precision, and at the mounted officers touching, as if for luck, the bridles of their horses rather too frequently.

The dragons themselves were not very interested. The ferals slept, as Colonel Fitzwilliam was used to seeing, in a large pile in a patch of sun, like horse and wagon-sized, winged cats, and the Yellow Reapers, the mid-size beasts, larger than the elephants he had seen in India, were running back and forth across a clear patch of ground, and shaking themselves, apparently to test the hang of their harnesses. The Longwing and Regal Copper sat like sphinxes under make-shift pavilions, as their crews ran ant-like over their backs.

Captain Bennet was balanced precariously on the head of the larger dragon. It was bright blue, with large curving tusks on either side of its mouth, and had enormous, orange-tipped wings spread out on either side, like a lady curtsying in a panniered court gown. The dragon raised a clawed foot to its head; Captain Bennet stepped nimbly into its palm, grasping the tip of a talon for balance.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir!” she called, saluting.

Colonel Fitzwilliam touched his hat. He had taught his horse, Perrault, to bow (warfare, in his experience, comprised of long stretches of boredom interspersed with hideous confusion; and during the stretches of boredom he entertained himself by teaching stupid tricks to his horse) but did not think it wise to press his horse to do so now. Perrault was restive beneath him, and pawing the ground.

The dragon very gently set Captain Bennet on the ground, and turned to look at Colonel Fitzwilliam rather haughtily. “How do you do?”

“Very well, I thank you,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, thinking it meet to bow from the saddle. It still startled him considerably whenever a dragon talked in English, and he fell back on the slightly flustered good manners that supported him through most of life’s difficulties. “I trust you are in good health, His Majesty’s Dragon Wollstonecraft?”

“Excellent health, I thank you.”

“I, ah. I must thank you, too, for the great service you already provided my regiment, during the evacuation of London.”

“You are most welcome,” said Wollstonecraft, regally. “My captain tells me you are to be part of my formation.”

“Indeed we are.”

“Arkady’s flock says that they worked with you before. I will be most interested to see how you could work with such....” Wollstonecraft paused and concluded, delicately, and rather snidely, “... inventive creatures.”

Arkady, the leader of the ferals, a pale gray almost-midweight, with brown markings and a red patch on one eye, raised his head and squawked.

Wollstonecraft clicked back at him, and as the ferals scrambled awake, and into some semblance of order, murmured, “And they call _that_ being fighting ready!”

Captain Bennet patted one of Wollstonecraft’s talons. “They will learn. Ah, Charlotte! This is Colonel Fitzwilliam. Colonel Fitzwilliam, my extraordinarily capable first lieutenant, Charlotte Lucas.”

A strongly-built woman, her nose and right cheek heavily pitted with smallpox scars, hopped down from the back of the dragon, and bowed. Colonel Fitzwilliam touched his hat to her.

Captain Bennet asked, “Lieutenant, be so good as to call for the other dragon captains? As soon as we have made introductions, we shall begin the day’s practice. Colonel Fitzwilliam's light company will be offering us a demonstration of their work with the ferals.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam likewise signaled to his officers to come forward, and called out to the men to set down their packs and muskets. It was easy to tell which men were new recruits and which veterans of the French invasion. The new men clustered together in terrified knots, shooting uneasy looks at the dragons around them. The veterans went over to the ferals as soon as they had formed little haystacks of the muskets, surrounded by packs. During the French invasion, the regiment had made pets of the littler dragons, and now could feed them bits of sausage from their hands, as they might a regimental dog. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s own favorite, a pretty little blue and white creature named Gherni, came prancing up and chirruped at him.

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s horse swiveled its ears and nickered; he patted its neck and said to Gherni, “Why, you have got a new harness! How very fine you look.”

He never had any idea if the feral dragons could understand him, though Captain Tharkay assured them that they could understand tone well enough, and had taught him a series of clicks and whistles that apparently meant _something_ , but generally meant that the dragons started squabbling with each other whenever they heard him make it.

“Gherni says it is much finer than Winge’s,” translated Wollstonecraft, rather bored. “Also, she is glad to see you and wishes you to know she has got some new shiny things too, like the ones you are wearing on your chest.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked down at his chest. “Medals, she means?”

Gherni sat back on her haunches, to display the bits of hammered brass she had proudly pinned to the silk carrying harness she wore.

“My goodness, aren’t you a decorated veteran,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, smiling. Gherni lowered down and gave a low chitter of displeasure, followed by a sigh.

“It is not as good as Arkady’s,” translated Wollstonecraft, “but that is sheer nonsense on Gherni’s part; Admiral Roland fobbed him off with a dinner plate on a brass chain.” Wollstonecraft looked down at the gold chain she wore in pinned loops to her harness, and nosed it a little, as if to reassure herself of the superiority of her adornments.

Captain Bennet turned from the small knot of her officers, to smile up at her dragon. “If ever you tire of the Corps, dearest, you have a career in the society pages, criticising everyone’s gowns and jewels.”

“Hmph,” said Wollstonecraft.

Captain Bennet, dark eyes twinkling, said, “Colonel Fitzwilliam, allow me to introduce the officers of my division. First, Captain Mary Crawford, of the Regal Copper Antiope.”

A brown woman, with hair dressed in ribbons and fashionable curls rather than the more pragmatic braids and queues favored by the other female officers, swept out the tails of her coat in a curtsey.

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to recall if he had ever met her in London, but realized that times Miss Crawford had been staying with his sister-in-law, he had been in India. “A pleasure, Captain.”

“We shall pretend so, at least,” said Captain Crawford, with a droll look.

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know entirely what to say to this and moved automatically into the next step of polite greetings by mentioning the one acquaintance they shared, his sister-in-law.

“Oh yes, dear Lady Stornoway,” said Captain Crawford, brightening. “I had forgot her husband had a younger brother. Perhaps it is a pleasure after all! I trust she adequately primed you for the pit of libertinage that is the aerial corps.”

“We are hardly libertines,” said Captain Bennet, with a warning look. “We merely have our own customs, the same as any other branch of service. It is only our proximity to dragons that alarm those unfamiliar with them. Colonel, I have the pleasure to introduce to you Captain Wentworth, of the Yellow Reaper, Laconia; Captain Harville, of the Yellow Reaper, Attia; and Commander Benwick, who works with the ferals.” These gentlemen all made the appropriate courtesies, and spoke well of Captain Tharkay, which put them immediately in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s good graces.

By the time he had finished introducing his officers, and inviting all the captains and lieutenants to dine with them that evening, the ferals were all awake and squawking.

“Look lively, my dear,” called Captain Crawford, striding back to her dragon.

A very old Regal Copper raised its head, revealing a hideous Baroque harness of entwined gold chains, pearls, and gilded leather straps. “I was merely resting my eyes,” she unconvincingly protested.

“Let us see what your men can do, colonel,” said Captain Bennet, before grabbing hold of Wollstonecraft’s harness, and nimbly climbing back up to her previous perch, on the dragon’s head.

“Skirmish order, gentlemen,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, wheeling his horse around. His officers all followed and galloped back to the regiment with alacrity. He was pleased to hear the order echoed down the ranks rapid-fire. Packs and guns were caught up, order restored.

“Light company, make ready,” Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted, raising his sword. “Upon my signal— advance!”

The light company advanced steadily, in two loose lines fifty paces apart, scattering when ordered, but sticking always to their comrade in arms. Each pair of men knew to aim first at the straw dummies marked as officers; each knew to guard the other, when not actively firing himself. The light company were the most skilled, most experienced soldiers in his regiment, who could fire three rounds a minute in all weather and march three miles an hour across all terrain. Colonel Fitzwilliam was as proud of them as his elder brother, Lord Stornoway, was proud of his sons.

Commander Benwick appeared to have some idea of Captain Tharkay’s tactics, for before Colonel Fitzwilliam could convey the order to do so, he put a whistle to his lips and managed to eke out a series of notes that caused Arkady and the rest of the ferals to wing up as a group, spreading out much as the light company did. The dragons were much less orderly in their explorations than the men, but knew from experience not to advance too far beyond the first line.

“Sound the attack,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, to the regimental band.

They did. The light company began firing at will, the ferals darting forward, swooping close to an invisible enemy, and, for lack of other prizes, uprooting what trees and bushes had flowers that caught their fancy.

“Sound a retreat,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, to one of the drummers. The rest of the regimental band caught this up; the ferals, recognizing the melody, swooped low over the ranks of the light company. The men reached up and grabbed the loops of the silk harnesses, before being flown back to the rest of the regiment.

There were a few too many shouts of enjoyment, or raucous calls and jokes for true discipline, but Colonel Fitzwilliam only intervened when the men began thumping the butts of their muskets on the ground. Even then, it was more out of the fear that someone’s musket would unexpectedly go off, than a desire to curb the general enthusiasm.

They repeated this on a larger scale with any company they felt secure of, and then formed a wide square where the dragons could land to rest themselves, and demonstrated how the wounded might be dragged to the center of the square and transported out to the medical tents. This was was when the ferals grew tired and laid down in the sunlight, chittering to each other in aggrieved tones until ground crews came to them with buckets of water and strips of salt beef.

A very young cadet in a green coat came over, ducking under the arms and legs of infantrymen to get to the center of the square, where the officers gathered, said, “Captain Bennet’s compliments, sir, and she wonders if perhaps Attia might try to land in the square, to help evacuate.”

“We shall have to widen the square, I think,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. He cast a measuring look about his men. They had almost all _worked_ with the ferals, and no one had actively tried to run away. It did not seem an unreasonable idea. “My compliments to Captain Bennet and... was it Captain Harville?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell them I am willing; only ask them to wait until I have expanded the square sufficiently.” It was the work of ten minutes or so, riding about the innermost line of redcoats as the square expanded to twice its usual size, and chivying the ensigns and sergeants guarding the regimental colors into a corner, to leave more space clear for a middle-weight dragon to land without crushing anyone. Despite his cheering the men, promising them double-rations of wine that evening if they continued to do so well on the drills, and the earnest entreaties of all the sergeants, Attia proved to be too much for them.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was not sure if it was the experience of having a dragon, easily three times the size of any of the ferals, call out, in the King’s Own English, “Oh do pray watch yourselves, I am going to land!” or the landing itself which spooked Captain Smith’s horse, and sent the men and officers in a panic, but Captain Smith fell, his horse bolted, the horses of all the officers panicked, and the men scattered, screaming.

Attia, a delicate, nervous creature, paused on tiptoe, wings still raised, as all her crew bust into hoots of laughter at the fleeing redcoats.

Colonel Fitzwilliam fought the impulse to drag his hands down his face, and only succeeded in this because he had to use both hands to keep control of his own horse.

“We’ve a ways to go, sir,” observed Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing.

“Quite,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.


	2. In which Admiral Roland affects a bad Irish accent

Dinner that evening was at least less of a mess, though all the ladies of the regiment were perplexed at seeing the female officers turn up in their full dress uniforms. To see women in trousers was strange enough, but... women in trousers, at _dinner?_  It made everyone feel awkward about the seating arrangement created by Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Gowing, who served as his hostess. The awkwardness peaked when Mrs. Gowing got up and suggested the ladies leave the gentlemen to their port, but all the female aviators remained seated. Indeed, Captain Crawford got out a cheroot and lighted it in one of the candelabras.

Mrs. Gowing looked quizzically at all the female officers.  

Captain Bennet, seated at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s right as the guest of honor, smiled up at Mrs. Gowing with cheerful defiance. Captain Crawford leaned back in her chair and took a long pull on her cheroot. Lieutenant Lucas resolutely refused to meet Mrs. Gowing’s eyes, and continued talking sedately with Captain Wyndham. Lieutenant Fairfax blushed and stared at her hands. The male aviators looked rather puzzled at the delay in the ladies’ departure. It appeared that wives and female officers did not occupy the same mental category; and they muttered amongst themselves that they could not understand why the wives of the officers were staring at Captains Bennet and Crawford so pointedly.

“The drawing room is just down the hall to the right, Mrs. Gowing,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, genially. “It is always difficult, adjusting to a new billet, at first. Thank you.”

The wives and daughters of the infantry officers filtered out, shooting quizzical looks over their shoulders at the female aviators. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s own officers were just as stymied, but most of them had been with him since the invasion of Britain, and were willing to follow his lead. Once the servant had been around with the port bottle and glasses, Colonel Fitzwilliam proposed a toast to Wellington, and then began immediately discussing the French invasion of England. Both sets of officers had enough battles in common to begin building a store of shared stories and complaints, into which they could communally dip, like enlisted men dunking their mugs into the pots of tea boiling over fires before a battle.

It would have been impossible for the army officers to forget there were female officers at the table, but they did, by degrees, become accustomed to it, and Colonel Fitzwilliam eventually felt easy enough to quit gently driving on the conversation, and to let smaller conversations spring up where they may. He turned with some relief to Captain Bennet, who slightly raised her glass to him.

“I am better at managing my officers than my men, but my efforts today deserve no such tribute,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, though he felt rather gratified.

“I was personally rather amazed at how well your light company worked with the ferals. A number of your men are new, and I imagine that they are still used to seeing French dragons attack, than British ones aid and defend. Up until last year we aviators lived very apart from the rest of the world.”

“That and... they are not bad fellows,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, spinning the delicate crystal stem of his port glass between thumb and forefingers, “but most of the enlisted men do not wish to be here. They did not sign up because they were brave, or wished to fight, or feel personally injured by Bonaparte. They take the king’s shilling because we give them rum or wine every day, or because the land they used to live off of has been enclosed, or a factory has driven them out of work, or because they were caught thieving or poaching, or the recruiting officer got them drunk. They are terrified of everything we ask them to do. We drilled them enough before coming to Portugal to keep them from being afraid of their guns, but that was... a hard won effort. I suppose you have no such problem with your crew.”

“Men are seldom forced into the aerial corps, that is true enough,” said Captain Bennet, with a smile. “We are our own, very insular world, like the Quakers, or some other group of recusants. Those outside seldom come in; those in seldom leave. It is always like traveling to a foreign country to me, when I leave the covert and visit my family.”

“Does your family... know what it is you do?”

“Oh yes, but they take great care to make sure no one else finds out! Before my aunt died, my mother said I was the companion to her eldest sister, who had an independent fortune and was a noted eccentric... which was not untrue. Merely not the whole story. There is a large, dragon-shaped hole.”

“During the occupation—”

“Ah, that was easier! England was in such confusion, it was easy for my parents to say they had no idea where I was, and were in a continual tremble for my safety. Then, after the Battle of Shoeburyness, they said I had spent the invasion with a distant relation— a dowager, and a dragon of woman— named Mrs. Wollstonecraft. No relation to the infamous author.”

He smiled at these stratagems and asked, “I suppose Captain Crawford quite overturned the established order. I recall what scandal there was in London, when she became captain of Antiope.”

“Rather! But Captain Crawford will do things her own way. She does not care a jot for respectability; she calls it a useless constraint. I do not share her opinion on that head; it came as a profound relief when society began to decide aviators were respectable— not the scum of the earth—”

“Wellington has claimed that title for our enlisted men,” quipped Colonel Fitzwilliam.

She smiled but continued “—but that our service was valuable and we are worth acknowledging after all. I recall going to the opera after Nelson’s funeral, with Captain Wentworth, Lieutenant Lucas, and Captain Little— you don't know Little, he’s in Captain Harcourt’s division. It is almost official procedure to get a box in the back and wait until most other people go in, so that the audience doesn't mutter about you or stare at you. Lieutenant Lucas and I hadn't the time to do more than change out of our everyday coats, so we were already a little nervous about being spotted. We _were_ seen, as it turned out... and we were all dumbstruck at Figaro’s stopping right in the middle of measuring space for his marriage bed to point at us and call us heroes! And the audience applauded! Shock of my life, really.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a pang. He was as guilty of such nonsensical discourtesy as anyone, but now it struck him as absurd. Before meeting Captain Tharkay, he had scarcely ever spoken to an aviator. One was polite, of course, but distant, as one might be to, say, the acknowledged by-blow of a lord, or the shabby-genteel. But ever since coming to know Captain Tharkay— with his dry quips, his quiet and understated brilliance, his startling competence— Colonel Fitzwilliam had begun to think himself in the wrong. Why on earth should he think people who had not only fought and sacrificed and risked as much as he had, but done so to the disapproval of the society that depended on their service, were any way his inferiors? True, the necessity of working with such terrifying creatures as dragons meant that anyone who could afford to avoid the Corps did; but aviators could not help the accidents of birth that kept them from the same freedom and power as a gentleman might possess. Captain Tharkay was half-Nepalese, and, unlike Captain Wyndham, could not pass for an Englishman; he was met with suspicion wherever he went. Captains Bennet and Crawford would have been forced to remain at home, barred from profession or direct influence, by virtue of their sex, without the Aerial Corps’ need for commissioned female officers.

The prejudice against aviators, he concluded, was an arbitrary one, due more to the human fear of dragons than anything else. And as he himself had experienced with the ferals, dragons were not so very bad. One could even characterize them as less than a known danger, but a safe, helpful animal, like a horse— one had to have a care, but their natures were affectionate, and with the proper training of both animal and rider, the risk of injury could be significantly lessened as to be next to nothing.

How an acid-spitting heavyweight taller than his family’s London house could be trained to be safe escaped him, but Captain Bennet had no visible injuries, and had run over the creature as easily as an able seaman on a frigate. Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to chivvy himself on, down this mental path, but something in him resisted and insisted it was a wise thing to quail at the thought of a Longwing overhead, or even nearby.

No wonder the day’s maneuvers had gone so ill, he thought dismally. He himself did not possess the bravery he demanded of his troops.

Captain Bennet was still talking “—it was such a profound relief to have another female captain, sometimes I scarcely mind how it came about.”

“Really?”

Captain Bennet looked at him quizzically. “You are surprised?”

“I should think there would be some issues of authority,” he said, without really thinking.

“Authority?” asked Captain Bennet, very much astonished. “Why should there be? Oh! You mean because Captain Crawford was _Miss_ Crawford and a great society lady before her uncle died— oh no, there was none at all. Her uncle was an Admiral of the Air; she grew up around coverts and understands the way the corps is organized. Or do you mean because there were two female captains?” She frowned. “Men always seem to think that if a second woman joins a group, the first woman must be jealous. But that is not sound, I have never seen it. The first woman is inclined to turn to the new woman with profound relief in having an ally.”

A little ashamed to have thought so, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Er, because her dragon is the oldest?”

“Wollstonecraft is a Longwing; Longwings are always the head of any formation. And it doesn’t go by seniority of dragon— does it go by seniority of officer in the army? Though I suppose not; Major Lennox would be colonel, not you, in such a case. But I beg your pardon; that is not an apt parallel. I suppose the equivalent... there is no equivalent, really.”

“I confess, I know very little of how formations are organized. The fact that your officers do not purchase your commissions, _or_ your dragons so perplexed me, I did not take in anything else that was told to me.”

This perfectly accorded with Captain Bennet’s understanding of infantry officers; she laughed and talked to him with great spirit of formations and dragon breeds, of battle tactics and strategy, of dragon handling and promotion.

“They did not well prepare you to work with dragons,” she commented, when he again looked confused over some piece of information she considered commonplace. “You mentioned today wishing to have your troops practice at forming double-wide squares, large enough for a Yellow Reaper to land in; if you do not need to observe them, perhaps you might visit the covert tomorrow? I can show you our way of doing things; you can become more familiar with the dragons.”

“Thank you; I would appreciate it.” He lifted his port glass and tried to swallow his fear with his wine.

The next morning he regretted such a promise, but after harrying the troops onto the parade ground, and saying that he expected to see progress when he returned that afternoon, he forced himself to turn his horse’s head to the outskirts of town.

“It’s alright, Perrault,” he lied, as the horse tossed its head with what seemed like a derisive snort. “It’s only a giant, carnivorous, sentient lizard who can fly and spit acid. And probably cut one in half with its teeth or claws, or step on one and crush one to death. What’s there to be afraid of?

Perrault nibbled at his bit.

To cheer them both up, Colonel Fitzwilliam spent a few minutes, when behind the tents of the dragon encampment, to go through their tricks: jumps over ditches and low bushes; turns and circles; backing up; various held rears; half-passes, where the horse moved both sideways and forward; pirouettes; and a final bow.

“Good lad,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, dismounting long enough to feed Perrault the sugar cubes he had liberated from the breakfast table. Perrault lipped at his gloved hand comfortingly, even after the sugar cubes were gone.

He heard something that sounded like applause, a bit distant. He looked up and froze in place, seeing Wollstonecraft’s enormous head stretched far over the line of tents and staring down at him. Captain Bennet was once again on top of her dragon’s head, apparently at ease enough to clap her hands and not hold onto anything.

“Erm,” he managed to get out, rather mortified to have been caught out almost stunt-riding, like one of the performers at Astley’s Amphitheatre.

“That was very fine,” said Wollstonecraft, approvingly.

Perrault flicked his ears back, but was more interested in nibbling the palm of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s glove, on the off-chance there were some grains of sugar still there.

“I, er, thank you,” stammered Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t think anyone would be watching.”

“Why?” asked Wollstonecraft mystified. “It was very pretty; almost like the dancing my crew sometimes does.”

Captain Bennet said something indistinct; Colonel Fitzwilliam put a hand about his ear, and Wollstonecraft said, “My captain asks why you are not a cavalry officer.”

Truthfully, because a commission in the infantry cost less than one in the cavalry, and when he was sixteen and in need of his first pair of colors, the harvest had been scanty, the price of corn double the usual, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s father, the Earl of Matlock, had had to borrow money from his late sister’s husband, Mr. Darcy, and his wife’s brother, the second Earl of Chatham, to purchase the uniform, sword, mess fees et all needed to turn a younger son into an ensign. Even three years later, it had been a difficult thing to get enough money together to purchase Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lieutenancy, and to get him a horse. Colonel Fitzwilliam had only been able to get as fine a charger as Perrault six years ago, thanks to a bequest from his maternal grandmother, the first Countess of Chatham. Such were the trials of being from a land-rich and cash-poor aristocratic family.

None of this could be said aloud however. Not to a relative stranger. The family did not like to even admit it, in private.

“I am not fine enough for the cavalry,” he called up, instead. “Or stupid enough.” He heard Captain Bennet’s laugh well enough, and encouraged, continued on, “I am not enough of a beau to be happy with wearing full dress uniform while riding slowly in a line, which makes me unfit for half of the cavalry’s duties. I have some notion of tactics and strategy, and know that blindly charging at an enemy while yelling does very little, which makes me unfit for the rest.”

“You are severe upon the cavalry, sir,” came tinnily down to him, through a speaking trumpet.

“If they were less fancy and more competent I would be less severe,” he called back up. “Er— is there a place to stable my horse?”

Captain Bennet slid down the neck of her dragon and a few minutes later, a cadet came to take Perrault away to be fed and watered. A midwingman with a long blonde braid came and shyly took him back to meet Captain Bennet.

“You have an extraordinary method of calming your horse,” said Captain Bennet, eyes twinkling.

“I wanted to see how well the new hoods worked,” he lied. “I am quite astonished; Perrault behaves as if the dragons aren't even there.”

“Yes, technology progresses at a fast clip these days; I heard talk of a sort of folded up balloon that French aviators wear on their backs, that will slow their fall if they are knocked off their dragons.”

“That sounds very useful,” said Wollstonecraft, interested. “Right now it is impossible to catch any falling crewmember and keep battling. Not unless one asks Arkady’s flock very particularly and even then they are apt to forget if they see something they can take as a prize, or are attacked themselves.”

“But come,” said Captain Bennet. “Let us start with the basics. Lieutenant Lucas is testing Midwingman Price, to see if he can rig out a middle-weight for light duty on his own. That is the most common rig; we only put on heavy rig when a battle seems imminent. I think that lays a very good foundation to understanding how we organize ourselves, do you not, Lieutenant Lucas?”

Lieutenant Lucas, wearing flying leathers over her uniform, with her goggles pushed up into her hair, nodded at them as she walked by, but did not take her attention from the ground crew, busy bringing over and putting on Wollstonecraft’s complicated harness of wire, leather, chain, and metal rings

“Well?” asked Lieutenant Lucas, turning to look down at the extremely nervous midwingman beside her. “What next?”

“The tent?” he asked a little tentative, and at her encouraging nod, he said, louder, “The tent if you please, sirs!”

Half-a-dozen cadets and ensigns, all of whom looked to be twelve or younger, raised up a canvas enclosure on Wollstonecraft’s back. The front panels which formed the bulk of the tent were long and sloped, evidently to present as little resistance to the wind as possible, and the sides and back were made of netting. There was a sort of hammock made of chain links beneath Wollstonecraft’s belly, where the midshipmen stowed bundles provided mostly for the exercise, before covering the whole with a large pad of leather and wool. The cadets on top of the dragon’s back drew up the hammock’s edges and hooked  them to the harness.  

Midwingman Price beamed and looked to Lieutenant Lucas.

“So you have got on the harness, the back tent, and the storage,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “That is very good! But you have not yet got the crew and the officers aboard. What must you do before it is safe for the look-outs?”

“Uh....”

Captain Bennet snorted but then said, “Wollstonecraft, give the poor fellow a hand.”

The dragon reared up on its hind legs, surly. “I do not see why you should be training him up so Crawford may have Price for a lieutenant. He is _my_ midwingman.”

Captain Bennet said, “Dearest, surely you would not deny Midwingman Price his step?”

“Why can he not be a lieutenant with us?” Wollstonecraft asked, aggrieved.

“Because you have three lieutenants,” said Lieutenant Lucas, peaceably, “which is all a middleweight requires. Surely you would not see any of us displaced?”

Wollstonecraft grumbled, but shook herself, and then reared up on her hind legs.

Captain Bennet turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam, hooking her arm around one of the pavilion supports. “Dragons! They are such loving creatures; they hate to part with any member of their crew.”

“... you don’t say,” Colonel Fitzwilliam observed, dubiously.

“Grab onto something, colonel; Wollstonecraft’s wingspan causes gales, even when she isn’t trying.”

He latched onto the same support. Wollstonecraft unfurled her wings with ill-grace and flapped them once or twice, causing enough of a wind to knock his hat off his head and blow it halfway out of the camp. Wollstonecraft crashed back to earth, causing a slight tremor. The other members of the crew still aground stood up or let go of their supports, looking at Colonel Fitzwilliam with barely concealed amusement. One of the cadets chased after his bicorn grinning ear to ear. It was apparently a very good joke the fastidious infantry officer should be so discombobulated.

“All lies well,” Wollstonecraft admitted, as if someone was forcing her to say so at gunpoint.

Midwingman Price beamed. “Lookouts aboard!”

Four ensigns climbed onto Wollstonecraft nimbly as the monkeys Colonel Fitzwilliam had once seen at a temple in Jaipur. Two hooked themselves onto the harness as Wollstonecraft’s shoulders, living green epaulettes, and another two at her haunches.

“Topmen and bellmen!”

Eight midwingman calling out rather sarcastic, “Aye aye, sir!”s lazily swung themselves up and into the tent atop the dragon; another eight stowed themselves neatly into the belly netting.

“Rifles!”

The riflemen grinningly offered salutes as they swung themselves up and scattered across Wollstonecraft’s back. Lieutenant Gupta the third lieutenant, shouted out an exaggerated army “Sir, yes, sir!” as he swung himself up, which caused all the riflemen to snigger goodnaturedly.

Midwingman Price puffed out his chest (not that there was much of it to puff out) and strutted about Wollstonecraft, inspecting everyone’s positions, pulling on chains and leather straps and ropes to make sure no one would fall off. “Well done, all. Ground crew aboard.”

The rest of the men climbed into the part of the belly rigging not full of baggage. They strapped in, one of them calling out that the surgeon was pulling a rotten tooth on one of the ferals and could not come aboard. The second lieutenant agreed to this account, and, with arms outstretched to maintain his balance, walked up Wollstonecraft’s tail to hook into his position at her rump.

“Very well,” said Midwingman Price, glancing anxiously at Lieutenant Lucas, who smiled encouragingly. “Um... ground crew, all strapped in? Lieutenant Lucas, if you are ready?”

“Aye aye.” Lieutenant Lucas had to jump to reach the lowest ring of Wollstonecraft’s harness, but then easily pulled herself hand-over-hand to the dragon’s back.

Midwingman Price bowed. “Captain Bennet, will you go aboard? I believe all is ready.”

Captain Bennet inclined her head. “Thank you midwingman. Colonel Fitzwilliam, would you care to come aloft?”

“I should like only to observe today, thank you,” he said, hoping he did not do so too hastily. “I have never seen so large a dragon go aloft before.”

“Hold onto your hat, sir,” she advised him, before stepping, as usual, into Wollstonecraft’s talons. How this did not in the least distress her Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know, but Captain Bennet cheerfully swung herself around one massive talon to land on her dragon’s back. She walked about testing the tent, talking to her lieutenants, and then at last settling herself at the dragon’s neck and hooking in. Wollstonecraft trotted out to a long grassy stretch and began to run. Then, with two or three great leaps, and a final splendid unfurling of her enormous wings, she soared upwards. Next to Colonel Fitzwilliam, Midwingman Price had taken out a telescope and was staring through it, holding his breath.  

Wollstonecraft reached what Midwingman Price muttered was cruising altitude and soared gracefully on a gust of wind for a time, then slowly turned in a circle. She tilted sideways and then turned upside down, her movements graceful and languid. Mrs. Bass had once told him of giant whales that moved through the water so; Colonel Fitzwilliam had seen only the back of one, once, at a distance, the graceful curving arc, the final flick of the tail disappearing into the dark waters of the North Sea. It had been too distant for him to have any idea of its size, but he wondered if Wollstonecraft and the whale would be of a height, and if dragons were, perhaps the whales of the air. This metaphor allowed him to feel a little easier. He had met whalers, who freely admitted that the creatures they hunted were dangerous insofar as they did not like to be hunted and would fight back rather than being stabbed with harpoons. Their immensity was the greatest cause of terror; they harmed humans only to avoid being harmed themselves.

But then Wollstonecraft put on a burst of speed and flew high over the meadow with the targets and spat out acid with a rapidity and precision that so startled Colonel Fitzwilliam all the targets were disintegrating before he realized Wollstonecraft had spat out acid at all.

Wollstonecraft winged upwards again and then went into a sudden dive, before pulling herself up and flying in a graceful spiral down to the ground.

Midwingman Price let out his breath.

“All lies well!” came Captain Bennet’s voice through the speaking trumpet. “No deaths!”

“Always a good thing, to be sure,” murmured Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Come get her out of rig!” Captain Bennet called.

This seemed an easier process. In reverse order the officers and crew descended, taking with them the belly netting, the tent, and the harness.

“Tea break, then we test Midshipman Price on battle rig,” said Captain Bennet, to the groans of the ground crew.

“I am sure Antiope’s crew will be very understanding,” said Lieutenant Gupta, mildly. "Especially when her chainmail falls off in the middle of battle and a Grand Chevalier rakes her to the bone.”

“Come now, aviators,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “Captain Crawford and her crew are very new to their duties; we really must show them how it is to be done. As formation leaders, it is our duty. Ah, tea up!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam took a moment to study the division of labor between Captain Bennet, who managed the dragon, and Lieutenant Lucas, who managed the crew. He did not know the ins and out of dragon handling, but knew the ins and outs of managing officers, and was very impressed with Lieutenant Lucas. She had a knack of convincing people, of subtly steering their thinking, so that with a little encouragement from her, they believed any order they received was something they themselves would have suggested, had they been formation captain. (Lieutenant Lucas also had an NCO’s gift of officer-wrangling; in her tone and the way she phrased her suggestions to Captain Bennet, Colonel Fitzwilliam observed many of the techniques his batman and sergeants used on him, when they disagreed with an order.) He watched with interest as the harness crews finished their tea and then put on the stiffer leather harness and panels of chainmail mesh that served as heavy-duty rig, and Captain Bennet, nodding her approval, took him around the rest of the camp.

Just like a regimental encampment, a formation on the move had the aspect of a transportable city. Captain Bennet pointed out smiths and doctors, cooks and quartermasters, the laundresses and other camp followers who were stowed in the belly netting of the heavyweights when the camps themselves moved. There was not the same sense of crispness, or order in the aviator’s camp, and there were, of course, the dragons moving about. He was somewhat used to seeing the ferals, at least, trying to befriend the cook and his assistants, so as to better beg for scraps, but it was alarming to see a Yellow Reaper, about the size of a two-decker fourth rate frigate, following after a leatherworker testing out new harness straps like a horse being led to a groomer.

What perhaps astonished Colonel Fitzwilliam the most (and he was later ashamed this astonished him the most), was the sheer diversity of races represented. Captain Wyndham had informed him that the Aerial Corps was known amongst his circles as the place gentlemen dumped the products of imperial expansion that showed their origins too obviously. Indeed, Captain Wyndham had spent his early years rather concerned he would be shoved into the Aerial Corps and neatly sectioned off from society by the giant scaly flank of a dragon. (It was not until later that evening, when he was talking over his day with Captain Wyndham, that Colonel Fitzwilliam realized that all the commanding officers were still English and various shades of white; the highest ranking officer of color was Captain Bennet’s second lieutenant, a West Indian gentleman named Reginald Alleyne.)

“We are rather the product of world travels,” said Captain Bennet, cheerfully, when he ventured a very vague remark about this. “I was a cadet on Wollstonecraft for four years, and in the West Indies until their Lordships decided it was not worth having a covert there and shut it down; then I was transferred to a new hatched Grey Copper, Admirato, as an ensign, and went up to Halifax and thence to England; and I was very fortunate to get my step to midwingman on Excidium just in time for the Battle of the Nile. Most aviators will have similar stories for you.”

“And... it seems that you have no NCOs?”

“Not as the army defines them,” said Captain Bennet. “There is the head of the groundcrew, then an armorer, a leatherworker, a gunner, a harnessman, a cook, and their assistants. But... yes, I suppose you are right. All the riflemen have the rank of midwingman; all the look-outs and runners are cadets. We are a gentleman-heavy service. For our given definition of gentleman, which is... very broad.”

She took him to lunch in the mess, as dragon captains did not keep their own tables. Captain Crawford, seeing him there, appeared to think that he would be awkward and condemnatory about it, and was astonished when he made no fuss. Colonel Fitzwilliam had fallen out of the habit of keeping a separate table during the privations of the French invasion. Indeed, he was still more used to huddling around campfires, using his saddlebags as a chair, and a tin cup as his only plate, with his officers all likewise situated. To dine in this fashion was no hardship.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam’s a good egg,” whispered Captain Harville, to his wife, a very handsome black woman, and the only woman in skirts at the table. “As soon as he’s pulled from his shell, he shall be flying in no time.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was not sure about that; as the meal went on, and the aviators grew accustomed to his presence, they relaxed, and he grew increasingly uncomfortable. It was difficult for him to be blasé about the ordinary informality of a dragon camp at rest.

The fact that all the aviators had been in uniform yesterday had apparently been a concession to army sensibilities. Except for Lieutenant Fairfax, no one kept on their coats, and even then, hers was unbuttoned. Some of the aviators had on neckcloths, but most of them finished their luncheons and went about the rest of the day in nothing more than boots, trousers, flying belts, waistcoats, and shirts. During the very hottest part of the afternoon, some of the men even took their waistcoats and shirts off, which Colonel Fitzwilliam thought would offend the female aviators. But they did not seem to care; indeed, as the day wore on and the heat became more intense, Captain Bennet abandoned coat and neckcloth, herself. She wore her shirt open at the throat, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her arms and neck were as tan as her face, which spoke to her habit of frequently running around in this state of deshabille.

When she noticed his somewhat pained look was not going away, Captain Bennet begged his pardon, and then began hunting for discarded bits of uniform. “Admiral Roland told us to try and ignore the heat,” she said, apologetically looping her cravat back around the collar of her shirt. “When Captain St. Germain got wounded at Toulon and had to take off her coat and shirt before a whole contingent of marines there was the most horrible outcry.”

“I am sorry I cannot so easily accustom myself to the informality of the aerial corps,” he managed to say, red from heat and embarrassment, “but it— discipline and hierarchy are everything in the army.”

“How did you work with Captain Tharkay, then?” she asked, a little puzzled. “I knew him a little; Wollstonecraft likes to learn languages and he was able to teach her the fundamentals of Durzagh, and he... well I suppose he’s a fellow formed for the Corps. Captain Tharkay values his independence and hates authority more than just about anybody I know. Why, Captain Tharkay ran off to Australia when Admiral Roland would have promoted him to the Dover covert.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was too astonished by the news that a giant flying lizard liked to learn languages to pay attention to the rest of this and stammered out, “I had— I had rather assumed that all dragons spoke as Arkady and his flock did, and had to be taught English.”

“Oh,” said Captain Bennet, a little surprised. “I suppose you thought our dragons a bit like parrots.”

“They are the only other animals I know who can mimic human speech.”

“They do not mimic, sir, if you will forgive the correction. They speak. They learn it in the shell. Durzagh is the language dragons use if they are raised by each other rather than humans.”

“But they do not reason as humans.”

“No,” she said, struggling to give voice to ideas she probably had not had to explain to anyone before. “They— they reason, yes, but they reason like dragons. I would not have you think Wollstonecraft does not reason. Captain Gardiner— Wollstonecraft’s first captain, and my aunt— she believed very strongly that the most important thing for a female to learn, be she dragon or human, was how to reason. And it was her further belief that one must sharpen one’s mind as one might one’s blade— by continuing one’s education long after the schoolroom. And so Wollstonecraft’s hobby is learning languages.”

“Is it yours?”

“Oh no! Mine is sketching characters.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know which conversational thread to seize onto and follow through this labyrinth of unknown and unsettling customs. He settled on the one that had tossed him into such a mire of confusion in the first place and asked how one might educate a dragon.

“The same way one might educate its captain. My aunt hired a tutor for me— specifically for me— when I first became a cadet on Wollstonecraft. Wollstonecraft, I am afraid to say, was much more attentive to the lessons than I ever was and so the tutor turned to teaching her when I ran off to swordfight or scramble around the covert with the other cadets. I am afraid I was an unrewarding pupil. If I did not pick up something quickly, on the first go round, I became rather impatient with it, and I always had to be browbeaten into practising. Wollstonecraft swots away very dutifully.”

“I, uh,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, unable to reconcile his new information with his schema of the world. He had vague opinions on women’s education, as he had been somewhat unexpectedly named co-guardian to his cousin Georgiana Darcy, but his understanding was conventional. The aim of Georgiana’s education was to make her accomplished— each subject she pursued at school would allow her to be both an ornament to her society and a suitable mistress of the great house and estate she would someday run. She studied mathematics so that she might know how to balance her housekeeping, not to teach her logic. She studied French not to keep her mind sharp, but to know how to plan and order a formal dinner fit to serve aristocrats and MPs.  

“Shall you care to go aloft?” Captain Bennet asked, holding her uniform coat over her shoulder. “It is too hot to remain aground. You may see us at work best if we are aloft.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam protested that his ignorance was so great he did not think himself ready to go up and, in what he thought was a clincher of an argument, added that, any road, he had no harness. The efficient Lieutenant Lucas reported that their chief harness maker had been working on one for him all morning, and before Colonel Fitzwilliam had managed to think up a polite way to refuse, some leatherworker was strapping leather belts about his waist and thighs, and Wollstonecraft had laid down and everyone was staring at him expectantly. His fear broke upon him like a wave pushing him over under the sea, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to walk forward and grab Wollstonecraft’s harness.

“Foothold next,” said Captain Bennet encouragingly, from on top of Wollstonecraft’s back.

“Like you’re mounting a horse sir,” said Lieutenant Alleyne. “Only don’t swing your leg over, keep climbing.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam forced himself to keep going, though he was slow and awkward about it, and heard the midwingmen sniggering at him. Captain Bennet crouched down and offered him a calloused, work-roughened hand, over the side of the dragon. He had a sudden, vivid sense memory of her doing the same thing during the evacuation of London. He had been startled and struck with her then, had been baffled by the long queue of dark hair spilling over her shoulder, the lightness of her figure, and the prettiness of her countenance before these details came together into a coherent whole and he realized there were female dragon captains. Now, he told himself, he knew Captain Bennet, had seen her fearlessly at work. His decision to take her hand then, and trust and hope for the best had served him well— after all, was he not a decorated colonel at only nine-and-twenty, chosen by Wellington himself for a unique and innovative assignment? It was entirely possible he could be made a brigadier or a general by the time he was five and thirty. (A niggling voice suggested that this was due less to his own personal merits than to the connections he had been born into. He tamped down this fear.)

In a way, Colonel Fitzwilliam reasoned with himself, his current good fortune could be traced back to the evening where he had expected the assistance of a fellow officer and refused to let the sex of that officer shake up out of that mindset. Now, it appeared, he must not let the differences of custom and service shake him from the same determination.

Good manners, his mother had often told him, when particularly exasperated with his father’s side of the family, were the best and most useful tools in life. Colonel Fitzwilliam managed to shift enough on the netting to free his right hand; he took her hand in his and said, “Thank you, Captain.”

Despite his idealistic determination to treat the aviators as equals, and to not be terrified or alarmed by the differences of their customs, his fear of falling off the back of the dragon was not so easily got over. He spent this second flight on Wollstonecraft’s back as he had spent the first: nearly terrified out of his wits, sure at any moment he would be sick, and capable only of grasping desperately onto the harness. It was too short a flight for him to become accustomed to the speed and altitude of dragon flight, so he did not even manage to feel the sense of wonder that had filled him, and nearly driven away his fear when they were flying calmly over the north of England, and he saw the Peak, the highest point of his childhood, pass beneath him, small and far below.

“Alright there, Colonel Fitzwilliam?” asked Captain Bennet, when she noticed how tightly he gripped the leather band about Wollstonecraft’s neck.

“Mm!” he managed.

“Why don’t we land?” translated Lieutenant Lucas, who was strolling idly up and down Wollstonecraft’s back, observing the crew. Thankfully the crew was chivyed off quickly, and Lieutenant Lucas made noises about wanting to show Colonel Fitzwilliam the tent and how it worked, without being buffeted from side to side within it, to keep them from noticing how terrified he was. There were only the three of them on dragon back; and the two aviators made polite conversation about Midwingman Price’s progress while Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to focus on breathing normally and not being sick.

“I suppose you do not fly with any of the ferals?” asked Captain Bennet, when Colonel Fitzwilliam had at last managed to unhook his carabiner and stand.

“No; an officer in our service needs to be on horseback.”

“Ah,” said Captain Bennet, looking pitying.

“I really fail to understand how you are so calm,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling unstable and shaken.

Captain Bennet smiled at him, gently, teasingly. “I fail to understand how _you_ are not terrified to be ahorse!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to her incredulously. “ _You_ are frightened of horses?”

“Traveling on anything that cannot tell you what it is thinking, or what it is about to do in the middle of a battle strikes me as the very height of folly,” she replied. “That and a horse bit me when I was four. I still remember it very vividly. Were you ever attacked by a dragon?”

“Just in the general sense,” he admitted. “Indirectly, on a battlefield. None of them were after me directly, but it is the French habit to try and take out officers first. Perhaps an attack in the abstract.”

“Before Captain Tharkay,” Lieutenant Lucas asked, looking thoughtful, “had you or any of your men directly seen a dragon before? Up close, I mean, as you might a horse.”

“I had seen courier dragons in town, or at camps,” he said, “and heavyweights overhead, during battles, but yesterday was the closest I had ever been to a heavy-weight in my nearly thirty years of life.”

“Ah ha,” said Lieutenant Lucas, satisfied. “That explains it.”

“Does it?” asked Captain Bennet.

“Captain, you forget that groundlings see only courier weights up close.”

“And so?”

“Unless Colonel Fitzwilliam's men spent a very great time in India and grew accustomed to elephants, they are not accustomed to any creature larger than a horse. The scale alone would be enough to baffle them.”

“But Lizzy was only a hatchling when she first saw me, and I was fully grown,” said Wollstonecraft indignantly, turning to look at them. “She was not afraid of me.”

“I wasn't,” she agreed.

“Yes, but your sister Kitty burst into tears,” said Lieutenant Lucas.

“Kitty was three,” objected Captain Bennet.

“How many people did you frighten when you flew over Lisbon?” asked Lieutenant Lucas.

Wollstonecraft looked vaguely guilty.

Captain Bennet stuck her hands in her trouser pockets (she had flown in her shirtsleeves and waistcoat, coat God knew where, and neckcloth a mess), and regarded Colonel Fitzwilliam thoughtfully. “So you had never before interacted with a dragon until Wellington gave the order all regiments were to evacuate London on dragonback?”

He admitted the truth of this.

She looked almost impressed. “I am sorry to say it, but I recall having a difficult time not laughing as you struggled up the side rigging like a new midshipman! It was very wrong of me; I ought to have offered you a hand up sooner. You must have been terrified the whole time.”

“Yes,” he admitted, trying for a joke, “but I took care to be sick from nerves only _afterwards_ , in a very private bush where none of the enlisted men could see me.”

“I am heartily sorry,” she said, looking grieved. “I grew up with Wollstonecraft; I find it difficult imagining anyone could be afraid of her.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at the still-smoking targets on their right, from that morning’s exercise. “Really.”

Captain Bennet screwed up her face in concentration. “ _Well_ , I suppose—”

“ _The targets are still smoking.”_

“But she wouldn't spit acid at you, or any of your troops,” Captain Bennet insisted, very like Colonel Fitzwilliam's ward, Georgiana did, when trying to convince him or her elder brother Darcy it was a fabulous idea to make a pet out of feral alley cats or dogs that later turned out to be wolf cubs. “Wollstonecraft is amazingly accurate.”

“I take some pride in that,” said Wollstonecraft, snootily.

“I think,” said Lieutenant Lucas, after a moment, “that it is time for St. George’s Day.”

“What?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam blankly.

“Oh yes,” said Captain Bennet, looking animated. “Charlotte, you are a wonder— a sort of village fete with games and things. Char— Lieutenant Lucas and I, we come from the same small town, and it became something of a waystation for couriers as a result of our leaves and my aunt and all— and everyone there is quite comfortable with dragons because of the St. George’s Day fete. One must simply get used to dragons, without feeling any pressure to do so.”

“We arbitrarily declare it is a holiday, in other words,” said Lieutenant Lucas, “and hold games and award prizes while the dragons look on. It causes people to associate something pleasant with the dragons, allows them to see that dragons are... different, but overall quite civilized.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed this was worth trying, and armed with memories of his father’s public days, and various May Days and village holidays, laid out a general plan of battle that met with the approbation of the aviators. Captain Bennet and Lieutenant Lucas were both rather amused their village fete now more resembled one presided over by an Earl than their haphazard assemblies on the village green, but after tweaking it to suit their dragons, and settling on a date four days hence, they declared that they were well pleased. The other dragon captains were just as happy, though Colonel Fitzwilliam’s officers were a little uneasy. It took some doing to convince them that this sort of village-fete-with-dragons was to be looked at as a source of pleasure rather than work.

All it took for the men to be persuaded was the offer of free beer and wine. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not like using this particular carrot, for drunk men with muskets never meant anything good, but it was unavoidable. He merely took care to schedule anything involving firearms or weaponry for the early morning.

The main problem was securing prizes for these contests. His share of the refreshments had already exhausted what discretionary funds were at his disposal. He was not sure where he would get additional money. His fortune was not large; he had been given two years pay, as a lump sum, for surviving the Battle of Shoeburyness; but the invasion of England and the scorched earth policy Wellington had insisted upon, had caused his family to go deeper into debt than ever before. The few presents his father had previously offered were rendered impossible, when so many tenants were now homeless and hungry, and so many fields burnt, and so many of the cows Derbyshire relied upon for its main industry were lost to dragons. To live as the colonel of a regiment was required to do, on only the eight hundred pounds a year the army thought he was worth, with the hundred and fifty pound interest of his fortune of twenty-five hundred pounds in the five percents (sixteen hundred from Shoeburyness, and the nine hundred he had carefully saved from the age of nineteen to nine and twenty), was an exercise in ingenuity.

Some habits made necessary by lack of money he passed off as the gregariousness of his own character, or habits gained from the general want of everything during the French invasion. He fancied his habit of dining almost always in the mess, and of having formal dinners at his own table (and own expense) but rarely, was accepted as such, as was his marked preference for music and conversation in the evening, instead of cards (which required money for stakes). His having one or other of the regimental wives make his shirts, nightshirts, neck cloths, and handkerchiefs could fall under this excuse, or one of the many ways a colonel of a regiment could personally look after all the souls relying on him for survival. His fussing about the cleanliness and care of his clothing had caused Colonel Fitzwilliam's batman to consider him naturally fastidious and picky about the quality of his muslin, rather than unable to always replace civilian clothes or uniforms, or purchase new ones.

But here his cousin Darcy, who had as much money as a lord, and certainly more money than Lord Matlock, came inadvertently to the rescue. Darcy sent Colonel Fitzwilliam a letter, written not very long after Colonel Fitzwilliam’s ship to Portugal had departed, with some novels Darcy thought he would enjoy, and a couple of banknotes slipped into the pages as bookmarks. The letter did not mention these at all, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was at first inclined to write back a dry note about how nice it must be, to be so rich one had no better use for five pound notes than to keep track of one’s place in _Belinda_ , but recalled that Darcy’s way of showing he cared for someone was the same as a cat’s: unasked for gifts left in odd places, and hovering in one’s general vicinity, staring at one and attending to one’s conversations in a way that was meant to be affectionate but which often startled onlookers.

One of the banknotes more than sufficed for what trinkets and tobacco he thought necessary for the contests for the soldiers (Captain Bennet graciously provided several large wheels of Manchego for the cheese rolling), and citing lack of time, he was able to persuade Captain Bennet that prizes for the more gentlemanly contests ought to be ribbons and bottles of port. Officers, he argued, would know how to hold their liquor, or at least know not to handle muskets while blind drunk. Captain Bennet somewhat doubted this, but Lieutenant Lucas promised to hide all weaponry, and this settled her concerns.

 

***

 

The day began with shooting contests, which Colonel Fitzwilliam rather expected his men to win. It had been hammered into him that the mark of a good soldier was the ability to fire three rounds a minute in all weather, and he, in turn, had hammered this into all his officers and all the men under his command. Altogether his regiment managed three rounds in ninety seconds; some of the veterans of his light company could manage four in that time, and some of the men he had unofficially appointed as sharpshooters could manage four in a minute, and still manage to hit a target at least once.

However, the contest was not easily won; all the dragons had riflemen on their crews, and the grooved barrels of their rifles gave them an advantage. The infantrymen grumbled about this until Lieutenant Lucas gave the leading infantryman, Private McGrath, a Baker rifle to try. The contest then became so close it dragged out for nearly two hours, and everyone was so heavily invested in the success that when some of the dragons began weighing in on the contest, the now tipsy men started arguing with the dragons over their favored candidate. Private McGrath at last won, to the unbridled joy of all redcoats, and the annoyance of the aviators. The Aerial ill humor did not last long; immediately after that came the fencing, which the aviators dominated.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had assumed they would, when planning the day’s events. The infantry had been trained to fight with muskets and bayonets, and the officers to command rather than to fight themselves; the aerial corps, which so relied on hand-to-hand combat on dragonback when humans were fighting humans, had been trained to the sword.  

The dragon captains were, as Colonel Fitzwilliam had expected, all remarkable swordsmen as a result. (They had to be; the object of any enemy boarding party wa to capture the dragon’s captain and therefore cause the dragon to surrender.) Captain Crawford was not, as yet, terrifically good— she defeated a couple of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lieutenants, only to have Captain Wyndham knock the sword from her hand almost lazily— but Captain Harville easily defeated every infantry officer sent against him, and Captain Wentworth was brilliant, if a little showy, and as for Captain Bennet... well! Colonel Fitzwilliam had never seen so skilled a swordsman as Captain Bennet.

In her hand, a sword seemed almost a living thing, darting about in minnow-bright flashes, quick as a witty remark in a drawing room. She was clever and observant enough to take in an opponent’s flaws in the first glance of her bright eyes, and short and agile enough to duck easily under the guard of unsuspecting men. Against Lieutenant Lucas, who was a defensive fighter, and who made the most pragmatic rather than the most daring choice, she was well matched, though Captain Bennet knew Lieutenant Lucas’s style too well and took advantage of a momentary hesitation to knock the sword out of Lieutenant Lucas’s hand.

The final fight was between Captain Wentworth and Captain Bennet. Their skill was about equal, and though Captain Wentworth had superior strength, Captain Bennet had superior agility. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was a better tactician than he was a fighter and had sat out the contest, watched them with a fascination only a little tinged with envy.

“I think the day is Captain Wentworth’s,” said Mrs. Gowing, to him.

“I think it is Captain Bennet’s,” he replied, watching her match each of Wentworth's advances with a series of fluid ripostes.

Lieutenant Lucas was next to them, and turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Gowing with a smile. “The smart money's on Captain Bennet. She and Captain Wentworth rose through the ranks together, and were midshipmen together on Excidium. They are familiar with each others’ style of fighting.”

“How does this give the advantage to Captain Bennet?” asked Mrs. Gowing.

“Because Captain Wentworth is too honorable to cheat, mostly,” replied Lieutenant Lucas, dryly. “Captain Bennet knows his pattern of thinking and can turn it to her advantage. Wentworth is too straightforward and honorable a man to be equally wiley. Ah, here’s something.”

Captain Wentworth twisted his blade away from the circle _sixe_ in which Captain Bennet had momentarily trapped him, and hit the flat of her sword with a sudden hard beat from the left. This, combined with the momentum of her own parry, caused the sword to spring from her right hand. Captain Bennet lost no time; she grabbed the sword with her left, and before Captain Wentworth could get over his surprise enough to move his sword across his chest to defend himself, she had the tip of her blade at his throat.

“Oh for God’s sake,” said Captain Wentworth, annoyed. “You’re not left-handed.”

“No,” she agreed, cheerfully enough, “but I've been training Captain Crawford, and the bouts end too quickly if I use only my right.”

“She’s right,” said Captain Crawford, with a moue of distress, which broke the tension.

Captain Wentworth groused a little, but surrendered, and as Captain Bennet split the bottle of port with him, he was soon restored to equanimity.

With both infantry and aviators in a good mood, the rest of the contests went extremely well. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who did not like to drink to excess, sipped enough to appear convivial, and to take the edge of his anxiety about the success of their integration, was careful in his arrangements, and his encouragements, and was relieved to see how quickly his men became accustomed to the company of aviators. They had little difficulty with the smaller dragons, either, who begged for food at every opportunity.

Their difficulties with the larger dragons were somewhat unusually resolved. Several very drunk members of the light company went over to Wollstonecraft, and began a series of what Colonel Fitzwilliam found offensively bold questions. It was not so with the dragons, who all began to chime in and answer them with great earnestness. Colonel Fitzwilliam listened with horrified fascination as the dragons looked appalled at the idea that they would ever eat humans, and demanded to know if men ever ate their dogs or their horses.

Some of the officers had been forced to do so during the privations of the French invasion, which made things rather awkward. The dragons proving more civilized than the humans started a general shift in perception which, by the evening’s final cheese roll (one just for the ferals, which amused and delighted everyone) caused perhaps not a permanent detente but a tentative one. Even the appearance of Admiral Roland and her division did not startle Colonel Fitzwilliam’s men— though he attributed this to the fact that most of his men were blind drunk. Some tipsy sergeants realized that the arrival of England’s only firebreather meant that they could toast their cheese, which only added to the dragons becoming an ordinary part of army life, no more terrifying or unusual than howitzer shells.

Iskeirka, the firebreather, was rather proud to be so surrounded by redcoats praising her.

“Not entirely unlike a cousin of mine,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, to Captain Bennet, who was beside him. “Lady Hester Stanhope has the same way of tossing her head when surrounded by a crowd of admirers. Or at least she did when she was Uncle Billy’s hostess.”

“Uncle Billy? Billy what?”

A little surprised his genealogy was not generally known, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Er... Billy, as in William. William Pitt.”

Captain Bennet, asked him, in some surprise, “Pitt? As in ‘the Elder’ and ‘the Younger?’ The Prime Ministers?”

“Yes— my mother is the second daughter of the first Earl of Chatham. My father's first cabinet position was under Pitt the Younger, which is how he met my mother."

“I thought Pitt was a Tory,” said Captain Bennet, puzzled. “I always hear Lord Marlock’s name being attached to bills for the abolition of slavery and for the reform of parliament— very Whiggish things.”

“Now that poor Uncle Billy is dead and cannot defend himself, everyone slanders him by calling him a Tory,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, melodramatically. “He always considered himself an independent Whig. He hated the two party system. And he was in favor of the abolition of slavery and the reform of Parliament. He just wasn't successful in seeing either of those passed while he was alive.”

Captain Bennet stared at him. “My word. You are posh.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had unadvisedly taken a sip of punch and choked on it. When he was recovered he managed to get out, “One... could say that. I'm surprised you didn't know. I assumed....” He was ashamed to admit a fear that had been haunting him since  his failure on the first day of training, but he was tipsy enough to be more honest than diplomatic. “Well. I am a little afraid I was given this posting for my family’s political connections rather than any other qualification. Wellington faces rather steep opposition in Parliament at times.”

“I never thought that,” said Captain Bennet. “And you can believe me on that point, for I had no idea what your political connections really were! I thought Wellington chose you because you were the first up on a dragon during the evacuation of London. I was there for that.”

She had an infectiously merry smile; Colonel Fitzwilliam abandoned his cup on a camp table crowded with other detritus and decided the rum was making him maudlin. He had time only to offer an answering smile before Admiral Roland came strolling over, hands in her trouser pockets and cigar clamped between her teeth.

“Lizzy me lass,” said Admiral Roland, taking out her cigar to affect a very questionable Irish accent. “By all the saints, what a splendid cèlidih!”

Captain Bennet tilted her head to the side in confusion. “Admiral?”

“Just found out our Atty’s Irish born and bred,” said Admiral Roland, “and hates having attention called to that fact.”

“So naturally you affect an Irish accent, in the off-chance the Duke of Wellington might join us?”

“Naturally.” Admiral Roland grinned around her cigar and then removed it again to say, “Bit early to celebrate, though, isn’t it? I'm told only Colonel Fitzwilliam’s light company can be relied on. Ten percent success will not be enough against the French.”

“It is less a celebration, admiral, than an attempt at acclimation,” said Captain Bennet. She nodded at the knot of redcoats toasting cheese on Iskierka’s flame. “So far, it seems to be working.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam?” asked Admiral Roland.

“So far,” he agreed, cautiously. “My men are... er.” He knew he was in an overly honest mood, and struggled to find the right word.

“Motivated by self-interest?” suggested Lieutenant Lucas, coming up to them. “Difficult to teach? Unreceptive to new ideas?”

Admiral Roland laughed. “All of the above, if Colonel Fitzwilliam’s struggle to keep looking diplomatic is any indicator! But these fellows are starting to get friendly with the dragons. Let’s see if it lingers when they’re sober. Lizzy, walk with me.”

Captain Bennet picked up her coat from the back of her chair and slung it over her shoulder. She gave a lazy salute to Colonel Fitzwilliam and marched off.

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Lieutenant Lucas and said, “Not a bad start, I think?”

“No,” agreed Lieutenant Lucas. “If you give a person an early positive experience with something or someone, it skews all subsequent perceptions. The same goes for negative associations.”

“Have we got to my men early enough, think you?”

Lieutenant Lucas considered this. “My commanding officer certainly thinks so, but, then again, Captain Bennet believes very strongly in her first impressions. You notice how she assumed you would have no problem with very large dragons, even though your only experience— besides your one ride on Wollstonecraft— was being attacked by them in battle? It is because you made such a good first impression, in the evacuation of London.”

“I hope you will not inform Captain Bennet she is wrong, and that I am not actually as brave as I apparently managed to appear. I was hoping to pass myself off with some degree of credit in this part of the world.”

“You certainly shall,” said Lieutenant Lucas, smiling. “But I think you are not a great believer in first impressions.”

“No,” he admitted, “I am not, for I so often seem to find my schema of the world does not encompass that which I have experienced abroad. I have changed it too frequently to think my judgments unquestionable.”

Lieutenant Lucas turned to look at him a little oddly and said, “You are an unusual man, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“Er... thank you?”

“How did you come to be in the army?”

“My father bought me a commission,” he replied, honestly. “How did you come to be in the Corps?”

Lieutenant Lucas moved her hand under her chin, as if to underline the scattershot of smallpox scars across her face. He had grown so accustomed to seeing Lieutenant Lucas, he had rather forgotten they were there. “I had very little beauty even before my illness, but during my convalescence, there were times when I overheard the franker members of my neighborhood murmuring that it might have been better for me if I had not recovered. Captain Gardiner took pity on me and— at great risk to herself, and to her sister’s family, I should add— she revealed to my mother that she was in the Corps, and that it was more than possible for a woman looking as I did to still make something useful out of her life, and to support herself and her family with... tolerable respectability. If one was circumspect, and called their commission merely being companion to a family friend, that is.”

“You did not mind such a sacrifice?”

“I did not think it a sacrifice,” said Lieutenant Lucas, calmly. “It will perhaps distress your notions of propriety, but once I adjusted to life in the Corps, I looked upon Captain Gardiner’s offer to become a midwingman on Wollstonecraft as _escape._ ”

“Surely matters were not that dire?”

“Yes and no. My father died of the same smallpox outbreak that so badly affected me, and left matters in such a state that my mother did not know how to educate and provide for all respectably on her dower. But I did not mean poverty. Not exactly.” She paused and said, slowly, as if she had been thinking of this for a long time without speaking of it, “There are few honorable provisions of genteel women of small-fortune; indeed, I had known none but marriage, before meeting Captain Gardiner. I have never thought highly of men or matrimony, and though I fancy I am practical enough to become content with even the stupidest husband, provided I had a comfortable home and the sole management of it, I am extremely relieved to have a preservative from want that does not require my becoming anyone’s wife.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know what to say and so quickly offered his condolences on the death of her father.

“It was seventeen— no, eighteen years ago,” said Lieutenant Lucas, with a smile. “It is polite of you, but the loss no longer pains me as it once did. And I am not unhappy, you know— I am just the opposite! At seven-and-twenty, I am first lieutenant on a Longwing, under the command of someone whose friendship I value over any other person’s, and who not only understands the necessity of my little subterfuge of respectability, but supports and participates in it herself. I like my profession and fancy I am tolerably skilled at it, and though my fortune is not _great,_  I shall never be impecunious while Wollstonecraft lives, and England has need of Longwings. I have more liberty and independence than any other woman in England. I need rely on no man outside of the Admiralty— but there, too, we women are making great strides. Admiral Roland is part of their number. Someday, I shall not have to rely on men for anything, and then I shall be the happiest creature on this earth.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was startled into a laugh. “I daresay you would be happy not to have to rely on my men.”

She smiled. “Perhaps, but the realities of war necessitate it. I shall feel a great deal better about having to do so tomorrow.”

The next day Colonel Fitzwilliam had to make his men repeat some fundamental lessons, such as ‘what is right’ and ‘what is left,’ and ‘what is bipedal motion,’ but as they were no longer quite so frightened of the dragons, he thought this literal backwards step in other soldierly duties was a small price to pay.


	3. In which the Iberian method of dragon harnessing is gone into

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I invented a hell of a lot about Iberian dragon practices, based on the actual practices of bullfighting. I couldn't remember or find anything about Spanish dragon wrangling practices straight off, so if there were things I missed, please adopt my own faulty memory and pretend these practices make sense. (ETA: I did mess up a bit on dragon sizes! Have edited this chapter a bit in a feeble attempt to make it make more sense, but sorry about that-- I'm not really a spacial reasoner. :/ Apologies all! ETA 2: Some errors in Portuguese have now been fixed! Thank you very much killthwight!)
> 
> Also, Lawford and Sharpe are from Bernard Cornwall's Sharpe series. You will be seeing them again. ;)

Two weeks after the fête, Wellington asked Colonel Fitzwilliam if he, his senior officers, and any of the dragon captains would like to go hunting. This puzzled Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had been under the impression that one, the Anglo-Allied army was expected to cross from Portugal to Spain any day now, two, there was very little time to spare for anything that was not training, and three, there were no foxes in Spain. Captain Lord Fitzroy Somerset looked mildly amused, and told Colonel Fitzwilliam he was wrong on all three counts, in varying degrees of inaccuracy.

“ _We_ would march but we must wait upon the Spanish,” said Lord Fitzroy, “which may mean we will be waiting here until Michaelmas. As to the latter two— this _is_ training, and there _are_ Spanish foxes.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged a look with Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, who was with him.

Lord Fitzroy coughed. “I regret to say that they do but much _look_ like good English foxes. Rather sandy-colored creatures. General Almaveda was rather tiresome on the subject and accused us Englishmen of wanting all coats to be red.”

“It is less the foxes and more the training that has us stymied,” said Gowing, doubtfully. “You don't mean to say that there are officers who aren't _gentlemen_ , do you? That is— I daresay some of the ensigns might have been too young to hunt before their fathers bought them commissions, but—”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been turning over the idea of a fox hunt as training in his mind and guessed, “I suppose it is partly that, Hal—” Gowing’s first name being Henry, though he had been ‘Hal’ more-or-less since birth “—but I think it is more making sure all the officers know how to ride and to ride quickly, over unfamiliar terrain. Over unfamiliar _mountainous_ terrain more particularly.”

“Everything here is so blasted different from England,” said Gowing, despairingly. “I recall when the Peaks were the highest mountains I had ever seen. I don't think the Spanish would even consider them hills, by their standards.”

Lord Fitzroy ignored this interjection and said, “You have the right of it, Colonel Fitzwilliam. His Grace has offered to provide horses for any of the aviators who wish to ride, as Admiral Roland somewhat distressed him by saying she would hunt aloft, on the back of Excidium.”

“I shall pass on the invitation, thank you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was a little surprised when only Captain Crawford showed any interest, but then realized that Captain Crawford was the only one who knew how to ride a horse.

“Why would we learn?” Captain Bennet asked, in honest confusion. “We have dragons, sir, dragons!”

“We are much better than any horse,” said Wollstonecraft, contemptuously. “They do not fly or go very fast at all, and they do not seem to possess reason or real language. What should my captain want with a _horse_ when I can take her anywhere she desires to go, in half the time?”

“Those of us so unfortunate as to _not_ have dragons,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, politely raising his hat to Wollstonecraft, “must rely on some method of locomotion other than our own feet. At a certain point, all army officers must be mounted ones. There is too much for us to do to be continually marching, and the enlisted men cannot see or hear us in the scrum of battle, or when marching in column if we are not ahorse.”

“I know that well enough,” grumbled Wollstonecraft.

“I suppose that is why we only carry half the regiment at a time, before turning back to fetch the other half?” Attia asked timidly. “And why all the highest officers are with the men who are on foot?”

“Attia,” said Wollstonecraft, wearily, as if this was not the first time she'd had to explain this, “why else did you think we divided the men so?”

Attia fluttered her wings, rather flustered. “I did— well there are so many men and I thought— it was more comfortable for them if only half the regiment was flying at a time.”

Moving hundreds of men and tens of horses via dragon had been the most logistically complicated part of their integration; after a week and a half of various combinations, and one packhorse literally dying of fright, they had decided that— with the exception of the light company, which always flew with the ferals— half the enlisted men would be transported via dragonback at a time. The other half would march. The dragons would set down half the regiment at an agreed upon spot and double back for the rest of the men. The mounted officers, freed from the pace necessarily set by the slowest foot soldier, would gallop along, and arrive at the predetermined spot not very much behind the dragons. Sometimes the officers divided themselves up with the men, and some ensigns would ride ahead of the bulk of the regiment with the horses. This was the more pragmatic solution, but the other officers were of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mind: they liked getting from place to place via horses, which were easy to command and remained on the ground (with the occasional jump or two), rather than via dragons, who argued back with anyone not their captains and were usually found hundreds of feet above the earth.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, claiming responsibility for his men, but really wishing to avoid flying again, tended to ride with the marching column, and kept an eye on the horses of the officers currently aloft. Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing was more often aloft, though he too, kept coming up with excuses to have one of the Majors take charge, so that he might ride with the men, or, as was his preference, with his wife, just before the baggage train. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not much press Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing on his excuses, as his own, surface reasons for avoiding flight would not hold up under close scrutiny either.

Rather than admit that they divvied up the men because Colonel Fitzwilliam would not press any of his officers to do things he himself was uncomfortable doing he said, “Well, it is partly because an officer needs to be on horseback to be heard, understood, and obeyed by your average redcoat, and partly because the men would be awfully crowded if we piled all six hundred of them on you all at once.”

“It would not be easy to maneuver so crowded with men, either,” said Captain Bennet, rubbing Wollstonecraft’s nose affectionately, as Colonel Fitzwilliam often did with his horse. “And besides, you cannot carry horses; the winds are too much for them, and they cannot grip on. They would break their legs if aloft.”

“We could carry them,” said Attia, holding up one massive clawed foot. “Just hold them about the middle and then set them down very gently. We could carry the horses— indeed, I think we could, and the horses would be—”

“Dead?” Laconia asked, snidely.

Attia’s wings drooped. Captain Harville went up to her and began muttering soothing nonsense, before shooting a very speaking look at Captain Wentworth.

Captain Wentworth stopped laughing behind his hand, and managed to look almost grave when flicked Laconia on the nose. “Manners, Laconia!”

She sniffed and looked displeased, though the effect could not have been greater than a fly landing on her nose. “What of them?”

“Don't you have any?” Captain Wentworth demanded.

“No.”

Captains Bennet and Crawford struggled to keep from laughing. Wollstonecraft looked indignant and said, “You had best mind your captain, Laconia! We are working with groundlings now and they grow very frightened if we are unmannerly.”

Attia, who did not like it when the humans were scared, turned imploringly to Colonel Fitzwilliam, the only red coat in the sea of what ought to have been Aerial green, but was instead white linen shirts and half-buttoned white waistcoats. “But you are not afraid Colonel Fitzwilliam? My Harville says you are a good egg.”

“And I thank him for the compliment,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “And speaking of that— I am... grateful for all his efforts— the efforts of all the captains and lieutenants— in er—pulling me from my ignorance of Aerial custom— so perhaps I might return the favor in teaching them the army’s?” At Attia’s puzzled look, he added, “I would be happy to teach any aviator how to ride a horse, after they have spent so long teaching me how to fly on a dragon.”

Captain Bennet asked, “Crawford, Wentworth, Harville.... where is Benwick?”

Laconia said, dryly, “Absent.”

“Without leave?” Atria yelped. “No that is very wrong—”

“No, no, Attia,” Captain Harville hastened to assure her. “He is with Arkady and his flock; they are still washing in the Tagus.”

Captain Bennet leaned back, her elbows resting on Wollstonecraft's nose, as if she was leaning back on a railing. “I shall query him later, but do you all wish to go? I shall grant you leave if so.”

Captain Crawford said, promptly, “Very much so. Indeed, I think we should all go. One mustn't turn down an invitation from the Duke of Wellington.”

After a moment, Wentworth said, “I should like to see how it is groundlings think proper gentlemen ought to behave. Their notion of right is so decidedly different from ours. I am curious if there is some kind of system unifying their choices to include or exclude as they do.” Captain Bennet looked at him in momentary worry; he offered her a tight smile and said, “I promise to behave very well, Bennet. I shall even hold my tongue when Colonel Fitzwilliam's officers laugh to see me ahorse.”

“They wouldn't,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, though he was not entirely sure on this point. He had noticed that many of the ladies (and certain of the men and officers) grew rather dreamy and giggly when Captain Wentworth was going about in his shirtsleeves, being casually handsome and dashing (almost insufferably so, in Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing’s muttered opinion; Mrs. Gowing had been rather starry-eyed when awarding Captain Wentworth second place in the fencing contest). Giggling born out of obvious admiration rather than mockery surely did not count?

“I should prefer to stay with Attia,” said Captain Harville. “That and....” he glanced at his right leg, which did not bend very far, or very well; he had nearly been cut out of his harness by a French boarding party during the Battle of Shoeburyness. Only Attia’s going into an utter panic and executing a series of terrified barrel rolls had kept him from being captured. “I... do not think riding a horse would be the most comfortable thing in the world for me.”

“Bennet, will you go?” Captain Wentworth asked.

Captain Bennet looked up at where Lieutenant Lucas was supervising some cadets drying Wollstonecraft’s back (the larger beasts, in Colonel Fitzwilliam's observations, went first in everything, from feedings to swims in the Tagus River). Lieutenant Lucas tucked her hands in her overcoat pockets and gave Captain Bennet a speaking look. 

Captain Crawford smiled to see this. “Oh I should dearly love to see you ahorse, Captain Bennet.”

“I dare not ask why,” said Captain Bennet dryly. “But Lieutenant Lucas thinks I should, and _you_ think I should, and now I am curious as to why two people with such dissimilar viewpoints are agreed upon the same course of action.”

“I do not think we are _very_ dissimilar,” said Lieutenant Lucas, thoughtfully.

“Oh yes,” said Captain Bennet, eyebrows lifted, “Captain Crawford _hates_ to be noticed. She _despises_ attention! She _shrinks_ from the very notion of scandal!”

“I think we are both pragmatic,” protested Lieutenant Lucas, over the laughter of the others (Captain Crawford laughed the loudest). Colonel Fitzwilliam hid a smile behind his gloved hand, but was able to assume his usual look of genial complaisance by the time Lieutenant Lucas pressed on, “Deny it if you like, Captain Bennet, but when you, Wentworth, and Harville consult your notions of how things _ought_ to be before making a decision, Crawford and I take a very unflinching look at how things _are_.”

“Ouch,” said Captain Bennet, though she tilted her head back to smile at Lieutenant Lucas. “And as things are, it is vitally important I chase down a fox on horseback?”

“It is vitally important,” said Lieutenant Lucas, “that we make some concession to society, or they will make no further concession to us.”

“One does not refuse dukes,” said Captain Crawford.

Captain Bennet sighed and said, “I suppose hunting on dragonback is out of the question?”

“Admiral Roland asked as much and was refused,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Captain Bennet shot him a wry look. “How lowering an afternoon this is turning out to be. I haven't even the consolation of having original jokes. Well Colonel Fitzwilliam, if you really think you can teach us to ride...?”

“Of course. It's quite easy, really.”

It wasn't.

After an hour, Colonel Fitzwilliam had managed to get all the aviators on horseback, but forward movement was proving a challenge. Aside from Captain Crawford, who rode side-saddle, easily and elegantly, no one had managed to do anything more than sit upon the horse, and even then they did not sit properly. Then, too, they did not understand how to properly order their horse, with a touch of a boot heel or a tug on the reins, and Colonel Fitzwilliam's primer on the one-word orders necessary to get a horse to do more complicated movements was not in the least comprehensible to the aviators. They all seemed to want not to order but to talk to their mounts— which in and of itself was not unusual. Colonel Fitzwilliam often talked to his horse. It was only that he did not expect his horse to either understand him or respond. The aviators all did, and could not in the least comprehend how to communicate their orders via touch alone. Wentworth managed to grasp onto the fact that he must use his hands and more importantly, the reins in his hands, but none of them had any notion that horseback riding was an active mode of transportation requiring the use of one’s legs. One had only to hook on and sit in order for the dragon to take one where one wished to go.

Commander Benwick seemed to have some sort of mental block about using his knees, and Captain Bennet was clearly as terrified to be on horseback as Colonel Fitzwilliam had been to be on dragonback. Her pretty, expressive face was eloquent enough on that subject whenever her horse shifted or shook its head.

Colonel Fitzwilliam decided to try her first, on the grounds that officers always followed the lead of their division leader.

“Captain Bennet,” he said, making his horse do a little diagonal sashay over to her, to try and make her smile, “you've such excellent balance!”

She managed to make an expression less reminiscent of a death rictus. “I thank you, colonel.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam made Perrault paw his right foreleg at the air, as if flourishing, and then bow. This broke the tension a little better, and he tried a gentle, “So you need have no fear of being unseated.”

She looked skeptical at this.

“If you will forgive the correction,” he said, still gently, “you are still sitting as if you are on dragonback, which will not help you much on horseback. Straighten your back and put your heels down. Your upper legs should be doing all the work.”

She shifted, and accidentally pulled on the reins; Colonel Fitzwilliam was obliged to lean over Perrault’s neck and grab onto the bridle of Captain Bennet’s horse, in order to keep it from rearing. As it was the horse whinnied, which set all the others to doing the same.

“What are they saying?” Captain Bennet asked, once again terrified.

“Saying? They're not saying anything, they're just making their displeasure at a situation known to humans. Horses do not have language, or perhaps, not one we recognize, but they can communicate. It is something felt. It is through gesture, not complex speech.” He took a moment to try and think through a parallel and said, “Captain Bennet— when you are fencing, how do you know what your opponent will do before he does it?”

“In seeing how he moves,” said Captain Bennet, expression clearing. “His gestures betray his thoughts.”

“Just so with horses.”

This was a more comprehensible parallel, though all the aviators now thought that they were in a life or death battle with their mounts rather than a symbiotic partnership. Colonel Fitzwilliam sent for the more trusted of his senior officers and assigned them each an aviator, so that there might always be a competent equitation nearby, to keep any of the dragon captains from breaking their necks or the legs of their mounts. Captain Wyndham, who had learnt to ride about the same time as he had learnt to walk, had the most trouble. He had been assigned to Wentworth, who was the rider most likely to try jumping over a hedge when unprepared for it, and he found Captain Wentworth’s attitude to horses as mystifying as Captain Bennet had found the idea of people fearing dragons.

“Horses are dumb creatures with anxiety in the place of memory,” said Captain Wentworth, whose temper had frayed after his horse rode past a tree it had seen twice before and suddenly panicked. “Ideal in an ally, really.”

“They're pick animals,” protested Captain Wyndham. “Their instinct is to bolt from any threats at a very high speed. We train this into something useful and intelligently deployed—”

“How?” asked Captain Bennet, skeptically. She had been listening in, as she and Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing had already agreed that all she should try to do was sit on the horse while holding the reins, while he and his horse made sure her horse was going where it ought.

“Offering the horses food, mostly, and shouting commands enough times they’re actually obeyed,” said Captain Wyndham. “Exactly like we train your common infantryman.”

“Not much difference between a horse and your common infantryman really,” joked Captain Smith, who was gently shepherding Commander Benwick about.

The joke made all the redcoats present laugh heartily, even the privates and corporals who served as the officers’ servants, and as the main stablehands and horse wranglers.

“Horses have it better,” opined one of the younger recruits.

“What, carrying the officers about all day?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam’s batman. “They've it much worse.”

“But,” pointed out Gowing’s batman, “you'd never waste a horse on any pushing or heavy lifting when there’s a perfectly good infantrymen standing about.”

This was an uncannily good impression of the previous colonel of the regiment, who had been killed during the invasion of Britain; all of the veterans roared with laughter.

 "I'd still rather have a dragon," muttered Captain Wentworth.

 

***

 

By the time of the hunt, Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing said that Captain Bennet would never be a horsewoman, but at least she would not fall off and break her neck. “Besides,” he added, with a fond look at Mrs. Gowing, who was adjusting the tilt of her riding hat, “With Kate on one side and me on the other, there’s always someone to keep Captain Bennet out of trouble.”

Mrs. Gowing heard her name and turned, still adjusting the hang of a curl at her forehead. “Of course! You know, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I am alway happy to help however I can.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled. “I’m well aware of that, Mrs. Gowing. I still recall the time you galloped hell for leather from our encampment in the Peaks all the way to my cousin’s estate of Pemberley.”

She blushed in pleasure and demurred, but said, “I fancy I did make rather good time.”

“Your fetching Darcy’s militia quite saved us,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, who liked to be generous with his praise, since he could not be with his coin.

“That’s my Kate,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, lifting his wife up into the saddle. He preened a little, and was still in a good enough mood he did not get annoyed when some officers from different regiments began to call out, “There’s the Robins!”, “Here come the redbreasts," sang snatches of the folk song, "Sweetly Sings Robin On the Wing," or whistled at the infantry officers of the Mixed Model Division.

The aviators, traveling in a nervous, careful group, like gazelles across the Serengeti, were understandably confused. Lieutenant-Colonel and Mrs. Gowing ignored it, for the regimental nickname annoyed them both, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was too embarrassed to do more than heartily greet the other officers in the hopes that all the robin-related jokes would soon be at an end. 

But when one of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s friends on Wellington’s staff, Lieutenant-Colonel William Lawford, came over chirruping, Captain Bennet asked outright, “I seem to be missing something, Lieutenant-Colonel Lawford. Why is everyone whistling and calling out about robins?”

Lawford said, surprised, “Oh but surely—” Then he laughed suddenly and said, “Oh no, I suppose Fitz here would try and play down his regiment’s nickname! It embarrasses his mother something dreadful.”

“The regiment’s nickname?” asked Commander Benwick, rather confused.

“Oh yes,” said Lawford, grinning. “Too much trouble, calling each division by their number! We give them all nicknames. Over there you’ve got the colonel of the Silver Tails, for obvious reasons—” he pointed with his riding crop at the effulgent tails of the colonel’s coat, which were extremely long and decorated with silver lace “—a couple of majors from the Holy Boys, over there, because they have Britannia on the plates of their shakos, and the folk here take it for an image of the blessed virgin.”

“Did you have robins on your badges before they gave us these?” asked Captain Bennet, gesturing at her own division badge, of two crossed muskets, before a Longwing with wings outspread.  

“No,” admitted Colonel Fitzwilliam, a little reluctantly.

“They got the nickname because his officers would blow whistles to his redcoats during the invasion, to give them orders without the French knowing what they were, and his redcoats, in turn, were always chirping to the feral dragons,” said Lawford, grinning hugely. "And of course, our whistling, chirping boys were often on the wing. Our Robin Redbreasts, though it gets just shortened to the Robins, since they chased the French out of Derbyshire to Nottinghamshire. Managed to trap a regiment in Sherwood Forest for about a week before the regiment fled back to London! Well, the soldiers who didn't desert."

“You’ve got your timeline wrong, Lawford,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, a little annoyed and trying not to show it. His parents had not been pleased that their son, the product of two lines of Earls, had been compared to a common criminal like Robin Hood. “We chased the French regiment occupying Derbyshire to Nottinghamshire and only _then_ were reassigned to work with the ferals along the coast. Wellington heard my men whistling to each other among the trees, he somewhat abruptly told me it reminded him of the noises Captain Tharkary’s dragons made, and had us march east.”

“Quite right,” said Wellington, riding by, evidently to collect his full retinue about him. He nodded at the aviators and officers before saying, “Lawford, come. I need you to distract Sir Henry before he says something that makes Admiral Roland kick him off his horse. Colonel Fitzwilliam, do me the honor of riding with me, will you?” He raised his hat to them all, and galloped to the front of the pack.

“Tell me honestly,” Wellington asked, as Lawford carefully wedged himself between a newly arrived lieutenant-colonel of infantry, and Admiral Roland, “how is the division working?”

“Mostly well,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Mostly?”

"The men are now accustomed to working with dragons."

"But?"

“It’s the horses, sir,” Colonel Fitzwilliam was forced to admit. “We cannot keep them from panicking around the dragons, no matter what we do, so we must ride them separately. But what we shall do when we have actually to fight instead merely transporting and drilling, I do not know. I do not feel comfortable having _unmounted officers_ over the rank of captain.”

“Hm,” said Wellington, and searched the crowd. He beckoned to Lord Fitrzoy, another aide, and said, “Go fetch Colonel de Gama, will you? Ask him to ride with Colonel Fitzwilliam.” After Fitzroy bowed and galloped off, Wellington turned back to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “It is a problem I have been thinking on myself. Perscitia has designed a sort of movable stable, based on the French carrying pavilions. One could safely strap in a horse in a small stall and close the doors and windows. Three stalls on each side, six in total. Four courier weight dragons could hold onto poles at each corner and easily raise up the entire structure.”

“But the problem would then be coaxing the horses in,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, turning over this new information in his mind. “Though— I suppose once in, it would be just like transporting a horse via sailing ship—”

Wellington looked pleased. Abruptly he asked, “Know why I chose you for this, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

“Not for my men’s musical ability?” he asked, with a grin. Wellington was known to be fond of music. “Ah— I thought because of my political connections, sir. That or you felt sorry for my father after the invasion, and wanted to keep one of his sons on payroll.”

The Earl of Matlock had been very particularly targeted by the French, due to his connection to Pitt the Younger (who the French credited with organizing most of the initial European coalitions against them), and the various cabinet roles the Earl had occupied in numerous anti-French governments. The London townhouse had been ransacked and then deliberately used as a stable for horses and pack mules; Matlock itself had been set on fire, its furniture stolen, its orchards dug up, its fields destroyed, its flocks decimated. The family had managed to restore the townhouse somewhat, but there had been a very awkward sixmonth where the Earl and the Countess lived with Lady Catherine at Rosings Park, an arrangement that everyone had suited exactly no one.

“Partly your connections,” said Wellington, “for the name ‘Pitt’ still holds some sway in England. Indeed, the last time I was at the Lords, the talk was all about how an invasion never succeeded under Pitt the Younger. But mostly, Colonel Fitzwilliam, it’s for the way you think.”

“I did not think _thinking_ was as rare as that amongst senior British officers.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Wellington, dryly. “ _How_ you think, sir, which is deliberately, taking into consideration all the information at your disposal. You then adjust accordingly. A well-informed mind, as I’ve heard it called. I think of it as the adaptability one associates the phrase, ‘an officer and a gentleman.’ There is a consistency of well-bred behavior, which necessitates the in-depth consideration of one’s environment.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, deeply flattered.

Wellington disliked sentiment; he waved this away and said, “You can best thank me by getting this division to work. I’ve staked a not insignificant amount of political capital on this.”

“If Perscitita could build me one of those flying stables, I can try to train the horses to endure it,” he said, doubtfully.

“Yes,” Wellington mused. “Talk to Colonel de Gama before you plan further.”

“And... what does Colonel de Gama have to do with this, Your Grace?”  

Wellington turned to Lord Fitzroy, galloping back with a brown-coated Portuguese officer in tow. “Colonel de Gama! Allow me to introduce you to Colonel Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock’s second son. He will explain the hunt to you.” Wellington turned and looked over his shoulder, at the two other aides waiting unobtrusively, about ten feet back. “Have them release the hounds, will you?”

The following of the hounds was relatively straightforward, and Colonel de Gama was able to do this without issue. But it puzzled him that the English should let the hounds do the work, and it seemed to him very stupid to waste so much energy chasing a _fox._ What was the point if there was no danger?

“What animal do you prefer to hunt, sir?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, politely.

“Bulls,” said Colonel de Gama. “Or better yet, the Buscapés!”

“The what?”

This turned out to be a feral fire-breathing dragon native to Portugal, who lived high in the hills.

"Oh, I think I have heard of that," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, struggling to recall Captain Bennet excitedly pointing something out to him on a flight, when he had been too busy trying not to fall off to pay attention. "They're the largest feral dragon in Europe, are they not?"

"Yes," replied Colonel de Gama, well pleased. "The ones around Lisbon and Opporto, that is. There are smaller ones down south, and in the countryside."

"Different species?"

"Different foods. The owners of the arenas, once a bullfight is done, they leave any bull killed in the ring high up in the hills, for the dragons to find and eat. It is believed the  _noblesse_ and fight of the bull, it goes into the dragon." 

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, in some confusion. "What does bullfighting have to do with dragons?"

Colonel de Gama grew really animated at the (to him, delightful) news that Colonel Fitzwilliam neither knew about Iberian dragon fights nor had seen one.

“My friend!” Colonel de Fama exclaimed. “I explain you the whole thing! Better yet, I show you. Tomorrow, my servant tells me, that the....” He groped for the right word. “In Portugal we call them _dracoureiro;_ in Spain they are called _dracourero._ Latin, it is _draconarius._ ”

“A dragon-fighter?”

“ _Sim!_ Our dragon-fighters— there are more than just the _maestro—_ what you would call the dragon captain— but the....” He groped the air, as if trying to pluck a translation from it. “The subalterns. It is their charge to go up the mountain to find the egg. The dragon fighter's whole team must go, for the eggs, they are enormous! Much bigger than any other dragon we know. A friend of mine, at the University of Lisbon, he tells me the Buscapé is unique in its development. The egg is enormous, for the dragon comes out at what is its full-grown size. Or, what it is if we do not capture and feed them. Then they become much larger, large enough for a crew."

"Why is that?"

Colonel de Gama shrugged. "Because the wolves in these hills kill and eat anything smaller than them."

"Ah," said Colonel Fitzwilliam.  

Colonel de Gama returned to his theme. "But to return- the men, they bring the egg to the arena when it is to hatch. Then we have many young men, who have been training with bulls, they are outfitted, full with his own _Hispano_.” At Colonel Fitzwilliam's look, Colonel de Gama gestured at his horse, a beautiful dappled gray, with black socks and a black mane. “A _Hispano_. Spanish Andalusian horse crossed with the Portuguese Lusitano. Strongly built, you see, but elegant. Very intelligent, very docile, very sensitive, very willing — and, I regret to say, this horse, it is the only matter in which we Portuguese have not best... bested? The Spanish. The way they raise them is—" he winced “—better than ours. If you buy a Hispano from Spain, it is better for the arena. It will be unafraid of dragons.”

“Unafraid of dragons!” Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “How is this possible?”

Colonel de Gama looked pained as he admitted, “The Spanish, they breed their fire breathers!”

“I don't follow, sir.”

“They raise their fire breathers, breed them on farms. They believe it best to have the dams and sires known, as if the dragons were _horses_ —” this with a shake of his head “— and they are happy to have the dragon lose the natural instincts. Their fire-breathers come from the shell speaking Spanish and knowing already the arena. That takes out the fun of it. Dragons, they are intelligent. The fun is in seeing if the _bandarilheiro_ — this is what we call the young men who wish to be _maestros_ — can put the harness on the dragon before the dragon understands what is going on. But in Spain, they have barbaric notions of fun. If the dragon cannot be harnessed, or kills a _bandarilheiro_ , the _picadors_ lance it to death. We do not kill dragons here. If no man manages to harness it, and it is not too injured, we let it fly back to the mountains. Escorted by two non-firebreathing heavyweights, of course.”

“Of course,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, still fixated on the idea of a horse unafraid of dragons. “But the Hispano, sir—”

“Ah! The Spanish raise the Hispano on the same farms they raise their fire breathers. The horses have been used to the smell of dragons from birth. And then they are trained with the fire breathers that are breeding mares, so they are not afraid of fire, or the smell or sight of dragons. In recent years—” here again he looked pained by the information “—it is become popular, in the Spanish riding schools, to have the horses jump on dragonback and balance there.”

“They are _that comfortable_ with dragons?”

“Yes,” said Colonel de Gama, “but it is showmanship in the arena, to have them do so! It serves no purpose. It is to astonish the peasants, only.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam wanted to turn his horse around at once and gallop hell for leather back to HQ and demand his regiment be outfitted with Hispanos. He managed to contain himself long enough to agree to come to a dragon harnessing the next day, before riding over to Captain Bennet and excitedly conveying to her all he had learnt. Lieutenant-Colonel Lawford was with her, as the Gowings had been requisitioned to keep Admiral Roland, an even worse rider than Captain Bennet, on her horse. Lawford observed their flow of wild enthusiasm with a pitying look.

“Oh come Lawford,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Let us rattle on a little; this resolves one of our greatest problems.”

“Not really,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Lawford, pityingly. “With the border closed, neither Spanish nor Portuguese will sell Spanish-raised Hispanos to us.”

“It's illegal?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked in dismay.

“No, but we always find ourselves outbid. And when we are not outbid, the seller comes back the next day, looking shaken, and spilling out the same rattle of excuses as to why they must renege on their deal.” He shook his head. “We may now be allies with the Spanish, but they did not forget we were enemies only a few years ago. It's so discouraging, trying to get those horses. I can take you to a breeder this afternoon if you like, but we are really scraping the bottom of the barrel. I have to cajole a sweet little orphan into selling.”

The orphan, Senorita Ignatia Montoya, was neither sweet, nor little. She was about Captain Bennet’s age, but about half again her height and twice again her size, and she said, straightforwardly, “I have but one price, Lieutenant-Colonel Lawford, and that is to be allowed to kill the French, to avenge the murder of my mother, the famous dragon breeder Domina Montoya of Ronda, in La Mancha.”

Captain Bennet leaned over her horse’s neck to whisper “Oh, I _like_ her!” to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“It's the best price we've had so far,” said Lawford, raising his eyebrows. “But... surely....”

Senorita Montoya crossed her arms over her chest. “Surely what?”

“These horses will be used in the efforts against France,” tried Lawford. 

“That is not good enough,” said Senorita Montoya. “It was an advance guard of dragoons, the —th division, who killed my mother when she would not give up her eggs. Them particularly I wish to kill.”

“I cannot promise you those men exactly,” said Lawford.

“I am not unreasonable,” said Senorita Montoya. “I will settle for any Frenchman who dared to invade Spain, and profit from the dragons they stole from my family. The horses I saved; the French did not go after the horses. I have brought them all with me to Lisbon; and all of them you may have if you will help me to kill those who murdered my mother. My mother! A widow, who never harmed any man.” As Lawford was proving disobliging, she turned to look at Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet. Upon seeing Captain Bennet again, she did did a double-take, her arms dropping to her side, and asked Lawford, “Your friends, they are... an infantryman and a... rifleman?”

“Their coats are darker than those of the aerial corps,” said Captain Bennet. She was for a moment tangled up with stirrups, but made a scrambling dismount and bowed. “Captain Elizabeth Bennet, of His Majesty’s Dragon, Wollstonecraft.”

“But Elizabeth,” protested Senorita Montoya. “That is a woman’s name.”

Captain Bennet looked amused. “I am a woman.”

“But you are an officer!”

“Yes, I am both.”

Senorita Montoya gaped and then turned on Lawford, pointing at Captain Bennet and exclaiming, with a marked increase in her accent, “Like her. I wish to be like her.”

Lawford grew embarrassed. “Oh, ah. Well. Captain Bennet is a special case. She is captain to the Longwing dragon Wollstonecraft.”

“I could be a dragon captain,” said Senorita Montoya indignantly. “I have raised firebreathers as well as Andalusians.”

“I very much sympathize,” said Captain Bennet, “but we haven't any dragons without captains in Spain. We were hit very hard by the dragon plague and there are always more female captains than eggs available; the list for Longwing eggs is three pages long. If you brought any eggs with you....”

Senorita Montoya deflated. “No. The French seized them all.” She asked about the English aerial corps; Captain Bennet explained quickly and wittily, but it did not do much to lift Senorita Montoya’s spirits.

She took them about her stables in an attitude of deep gloom. Colonel Fitzwilliam could not understand why she could fail to be cheered by the two rows of eight stalls, filled with gorgeous horses, or why she looked so depressed as she took out a particularly beautiful white, two-year-old filly and put her through her paces. Colonel Fitzwilliam could not help but be animated in his praise, that so young a horse already handled so beautifully and was so docile at rest. Senorita Montoya shrugged when Colonel Fitzwilliam asked to ride her, and seemed rather bored by how quickly and gracefully the horse obeyed his every command.

“Dulcinea is the best of the two years, with no fear at all of dragons,” she said, listlessly, as the horse daintily performed Colonel Fitzwilliam's favorite trick, and flourished her right foreleg three times before bowing.

‘Dulcinea!’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, with a stab of desperate longing. Surely this was meant to be— as a child he and his cousin Darcy had been bookish, more inclined to read than run about outdoors. Lady Matlock had set their tutor to teaching them Spanish out of _Don Quixote_ during one long vac, to try and impress upon them the dangers of reading too much. This had, of course, backfired wildly, and Colonel Fitzwilliam and Darcy had spent the summer riding about Derbyshire with shaving basins on their heads, pestering all the shepherds for tales of tragic love, and bewildering all the millers in a twenty mile radius by insisting the windmills were all giants.

“Was she named after the Dulcinea in _Don Quixote_?” Colonel FitzwillIam asked, because he had never grown out of the habit of tormenting himself with what he could not have.

“Yes,” Senorita Montoya said. And then, after a moment, “ _Don Quixote_ —it was my mother’s favorite book.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was torn. He stroked Dulcina’s soft nose. She gave him a limpid, sweet look.

“I think Fitz is in love,” whispered Lawford to Captain Bennet. 

“Is there any chance at all you might sell me Dulcinea?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked. “Either in coin—” he’d find it somehow if he had to sell all his books and best uniforms “—or perhaps you might like to use my current horse for a stud? He has an impeccable pedigree and was easily trained. He handles well around everything but dragons, and even then he's only nervous. He's never outright bolted.”

“Your horse— what is he? An English thoroughbred?”

“Oh no, purebred Arabian, from the mare Sherazade. Named him Perrault after another famous teller of fairy tales.”

“I have only Andalusians and Luisitanio,” she said, dubiously. “Arabians, they are often too high strung to be of much use near dragons. Even in a cross between an Arabian and an Andalusian, they are good only for the bull ring, not the dragon ring.”

“Perhaps,” said Captain Bennet, “I could take you on as a cadet?”

“A cadet?” repeated Senorita Montoya, aghast. “My family raised fire-breathers for every arena from Seville to Madrid! There is nothing I do not know about dragons, and you would give me the same rank as a seven-year-old?”

The threads began weaving themselves together.

Slowly, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “And you... trained the firebreathers for the ring, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“So,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying to communicate, ‘please agree to this plan’ to Lawford, though eyebrows alone, “if we could get you in a ring with a new-hatched egg—you would have no trouble at all in harnessing the beast yourself? Even if it was a feral Portuguese Buscapé?”

Senorita Montoya looked scornful. “Without question.”

Lawford said, carefully, “Fitz, dear boy— you realize that the Portuguese and Spanish do not have women serving in their aerial corps? It would be very difficult to get them to agree to accept Captain Montoya.”

Captain Bennet had been listening to the plan implied by his questions with keen interest; at this she said, “This dragon harnessing you mentioned, Colonel Fitzwilliam— is is something Admiral Roland has been invited to attend?”

“The Peer has,” said Lawford, meaning Wellington, who involuntarily collected nicknames the way a naturalist might purposefully collect rocks or butterflies. “So I imagine he’ll drag Admiral Roland to it, so someone will say every petty thing he’s thinking.”

“Then,” Captain Bennet said, turning to Senorita Montoya, “if you can harness a dragon, I can ensure you will be made a captain.”

"You think you can manage it?" asked Lawford, as they were leaving. 

"I think we might as well equip ourselves with white flags if we do not manage to solve our problem with horses," replied Captain Bennet. "I did not quite understand the extent of the difficulty in managing horses in general. Around dragons...." She sighed. "I suppose you really cannot do without them Colonel Fitzwilliam?"

"No."

"Then I will make sure that you get ones well-trained enough to do what is required." She smiled at him, rather mischievously all told. "You may trust me, sir."

Colonel Fitzwilliam found that he already did.

 

***

 

Senorita Montoya, when decked out in the padded buckskin suit of the _bandarilheiros_ merely looked large, rather than voluptuous; and with her hair tucked up under the Spanish version of a bicorn, flying goggles pulled down over her eyes, and a red silk scarf over nose and mouth, she looked very similar to all the other _bandarilheiros_ lining up outside the ring, waiting to be assigned a color and given fire-proof capes and dragon harnesses in that shade.

“And your man Sharpe,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, softly, “you are sure he can steal the sign-up book?”

“And add her name, too,” said Lawford, as the played the Dumb Englishmen and wandered about the entrance to the bullring, annoying the Portuguese and asking stupid questions of all the officials. “He came to the army a thief from the gutter. I taught him how to read and write when Tipoo Sultan imprisoned us both. Awful place, those prisons.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam grimaced. “Facing down his Mysore rockets was not much better. You didn’t miss much.” He felt at his upper arm, almost feeling a twinge in long-healed scar tissue.

Lawford, catching sight of a tall, scarred figure in a rifleman’s dark green jacket, turned to pick up one of the _picador’s_ lances, asking loudly, “What’s this for?” and swinging it around in a decidedly stupid and dangerous way. The officials at the bullring all tried to converge upon him, while Lawford pretended not to know a word of either Spanish or Portuguese.

Colonel Fitzwilliam then whistled for Gherni.

Half-a-dozen ferals landed noisily, overturning tables, investigating the interesting smells of firerpoof cloth, turning over the shining, gilded weaponry, causing all the _bandarilheiros_ to hop out of the way, and the bullring officials to begin really losing their tempers. Colonel Fitzwilliam helped drag this out by exaggerating his own British accent, so that no one could understand any of the Spanish or Portuguese he attempted. When Lawford at last put down the lance with exaggerated care, Colonel Fitzwilliam feigned sudden understanding and said, “Ah! You want the dragons gone! Damned sorry. Gherni!” He pointed at the top of the arena. “You and the others go sit there. Up there. With Arkady. Got it?”

She nodded and launched herself upwards. The others followed her lead, creating what looked to be a line of gargoyles facing in the wrong direction, at the top of the bullring. Colonel Fitzwilliam caught sight of a dark green jacket disappearing around the bend of the ring, and said, “Really, terribly sorry! You know these feral beasts. All that fighting spirit, and no discipline.” 

The fight itself Colonel Fitzwilliam found interesting enough. He liked seeing all the _bandarilheiros_ ride out and in a circle, raising their capes upwards, to display their colors, and really enjoyed all the impromptu shows of horsemanship the _bandarilheiros_ used to entertain the audience while they waited for the egg to hatch. He was even roused to real enjoyment when the Buscapé burst from its shell, in a mild explosion, though this was mostly because Captain Bennet, Captain Crawford, Lieutenant Lucas, and Lieutenant Fairfax, who sat immediately behind him, cooed, “Oh how darling it is!” in various iterations while the newly hatched dragon shook off pieces of shell and looked warily about the ring.

“Darling?” asked Colonel de Gama, mystified. “My English perhaps— it is not good enough for understanding.”

“They think it’s adorable,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, as the dragon shook the last bit of shell off its horns.

“Adorable?” asked Colonel de Gama, still no nearer to understanding. “It is the size of a full-grown bull! It breathes fire!”

“And isn’t it precious?” cooed Captain Crawford exaggeratedly.

Colonel de Gama looked askance at the female aviators behind him, but as Admiral Roland was sitting in the center of the front row, next to Wellington and other dignitaries, he kept his opinions of female aviators to himself.

The _bandarilheiros_ advanced in a contracting circle. The cheering that had met the hatching died down; the dragon rose on its back legs, half extending its wings in order to look larger. Then one of the _bandarilheiros_ broke suddenly from the group and darted forward, to a roar of, “Olé!” from the crowd. The dragon shot out a terrified jet of flame; the _bandarilheiro held_ up his cloak to shield himself, and his horse expertly veered away from the flame. The _bandarilheiros_ each began to perform variations on the same maneuver. A couple managed to get close enough to the dragon to spin it around, for the dragon had now learnt to follow the movement of the cloaks.

“The poor thing must be so frightened,” murmured Mrs. Gowing.

Captain Granby, captain of England’s only firebreather, burst out into somewhat hysterical laughter, but managed to get out that, if Iskerkia’s temperament was typical of firebreathing dragons, the hatchling was hugely enjoying itself.

“Besides,” said Admiral Roland, overhearing this and leaning back, “that dragon’s pleased as punch. She’s got twenty people showing off to her, demonstrating how brave and agile they are, trying to get her to choose them as her captain.”

“But does she understand that?” asked Captain Bennet, worrying at her lower lip. “No one’s talking to her, or trying to. I’m not sure if she even picked up Portuguese.”

Some of the _bandellieros_ were beginning to fall back or off their horses; Colonel Fitzwilliam could see Senorita Montoya was still on her horse, waving her cape of aerial green expertly. He fancied Senorita Montoya said something, for the dragon turned to look at her.

“Well look there Lizzy,” said Admiral Roland, gesturing with her chin. “That chap’s talking to her. And look at that!”

The dragon bowed its head and eagerly ran at the cloak; Senorita Montoya’s horse expertly turned in a semi-circle in one way and then another. The dragon raised its head and said something in what sounded like the dragon language Arkady and the other ferals spoke, only with a Portuguese accent. Senorita Montoya dug her heels into her horse and took a flying leap over the dragon, who seemed rather thrilled by this.

The other _bandarilheiros_ sulkily fell back, as horse and rider continued their fluid leaps and turns, reminding Colonel Fitzwilliam that the ancient Romans, seeing the ancient Portuguese ride, had once thought that centaurs lived along the River Tagus. The dragon was absolutely delighted, and began shooting out jets of fire to see how Senorita Montoya would avoid them.

“Ah!” said Colonel de Gama, very satisfied. “Here’s something!”

Of course, Senorita Montoya then managed to land her horse on dragonback for a moment, before leaping off again. The crowd went wild, though Colonel de Gama scowled and folded his arms over his chest. “Pft! Spanish riding. They shouldn’t have allowed the Spanish into the ring. No purity of the sport!”

The dragon, terrifically excited to be reminded that ‘up’ was an option, unfurled its wings and took to the air, setting down jets of flame that Senorita Montoya dodged with expert horsemanship. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s heart was in his throat at every swirl of the fireproof cloak that seemed too close, every time the horse tossed its head uneasily, certain that Senorita Montoya would either be tossed from her horse or fried like a bit of cheese on the bayonet of one of his infantrymen.

“Can you believe that horse!” exclaimed Gowing. “Not in the least afraid!”

“It’s in the training,” grumped Colonel de Gama.

The dragon fell into an exhausted, excited heap on the floor of sandy floor of the arena. Senorita Montoya rode up in a diagonal sashay, and dangled not her cloak, but the aerial green harness before the dragon.

There was a sense of collectively held breath as the dragon examined the harness, then an eruption of wild cheering as it bowed its head. Senorita Montoya slid on the harness, then nodded to the officials waiting by the entrance to the area. Two Hispanos trotted out, pulling behind them a sort of gilded cart full of meat, with two servants hanging off the back. Senorita Montoya gracefully dismounted her horse, handed the reins to one of these men, and accepted a large chunk of meat from the other. She crouched down and offered it to the dragon, who wolfed it down and looked about hungrily for more.

Captain Wentworth sighed. "I remember when Laconia was first hatched. She ate nearly her weight in beef."

"I've never seen a new-hatched dragon quite so big before," said Captain Bennet. "Admiral, have you?"

"No, and I can't imagine what passing the egg must have been like for the poor mother," she said, wincing. "Though I suppose it's relative. The Buscapés I've seen here are enormous. Nearly the size of Regal Coppers. If they created an egg the size of, say, a Longwing's, they might accidentally step on it and crush it to death.

This dragon ate everything on the cart, in a truly disturbingly short amount of time, at which point, Senorita Montoya turned to the box full of British officers and all the Portuguese worthies who had invited them, and bowed. The man in the fanciest Portuguese military uniform stood and said something Colonel Fitzwilliam was sure was impressive to people who could understand Portuguese.

At what appeared to be the end of the speech, the man announced, “Maestro Montoya!” which caused people to start singing some song that none of the British people knew, only to stop on a sharp gasp as Maestro Montoya removed her hat to press it to her heart, and her long dark hair came spilling out.

“Oh she planned that,” muttered Captain Crawford. “No one’s hair just _does_ that.”

“I have a feeling she planned that particular move very carefully,” agreed Captain Bennet. She caught Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eye and winked. He didn’t bother to hide his grin.

Colonel de Gama gaped. “But it— a woman! A woman cannot be a dragon captain!”

“Oh no?” asked Captain Bennet, coolly. “You will have no female dragon captains in Portugal sir?”

“No!”

“Did you hear that Admiral?” called Captain Bennet. “No female dragon captains in Portugal!”

“Pity,” said Admiral Roland. “I was just getting used to the heat. Ah well, back to England it is. Have fun defeating Napoleon without us.”

Colonel de Gama’s general glared at de Gama before launching into a long and apologetic speech which Admiral Roland answered with an admiring, “And here I was thinking I had seen a dragon harnessing, not a bullfight! But this is as fine a spread of bullshit as ever I have seen.”

How Wellington managed to hear this and remain stony-faced, Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know. 

More apologies followed, resulting in the eventual acceptance of new-made Maestro Montoya as the first female dragon captain in the Portuguese Aerial Corps.

The next day, twenty Hispanios and their grooms were dispatched to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s barracks. He delightedly set about housing all men and horses, assigning privates and corporals to learn from the Spanish grooms, and ordering his quartermaster to see if there were lodgings anywhere closer to the dragon camp, so that the British horses might begin the same training as the Hispanios. He then indulged himself by introducing Dulcinea to Perrault, who was _very_ interested in this new stablemate, and cut short this blossoming romance by riding Dulcinea over to the aerial encampment. His aides all believed, or pretended to believe that this was to see what progress had been made in finding a new stable, but with all the winks and half-hidden smiles, it was quite obvious that every knew Colonel Fitzwilliam Had a New Horse and was giddy as a child over it.

“Someday,” said Captain Crawford, melodramatically, when Colonel Fitzwilliam dismounted at the camp, “I hope a man will look at me the same way Colonel Fitzwilliam looks at his new horse.”

“If you had solved a seemingly insurmountable problem that might cripple the success of our division, I daresay he’d look at you the same way,” said Captain Bennet. She did not bother to move from her informal attitude, sprawled, as she was, over her dragon’s foreleg, head tilted back and handing down over the side, but did close her book at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s approach. “I see you’ve found your Dulcinea, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“Oh she handles like a dream,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I feel quite quixotic. Can we really have managed to create a working division?”

“Well, we haven’t tested out Perscitia’s flying stables,” she said, waving to where Captains Wentworth and Harville were testing the locks on the prototype, “but I think we are very nearly there!”

“Fitting then,” he replied, “that it took our finding Dulcinea, fled from La Mancha, to do it!”

After a moment Wollstonecraft said, "I do not think it would be very hard. There were four other Dulcineas in the horses delivered here. One of the grooms said it was Senora Montoya's habit to call any sweet-tempered horse 'Dulcinea,' as a real Hispano does not get a proper name until it has been in the ring."

“Oh, well,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, too delighted with his Dulcinea to be very upset.

 _"Don Quixote_ is all about misunderstanding the point of stories,” said Captain Bennet, smilingly taking her book again. “Cervantes would be proud.”


	4. In which the Battle of Talavera is won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Over the Hills and Far Away," is a folk song used in the Sharpe series-- which I thought apt considering we were in the Battle of Talavera, and Sharpe has a little cameo. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOeYPpOblAw
> 
> The terrible cartoon about Napoleon is modified from this horrifying one that actually exists (warning, EXTREMELY NSFW): http://www.booktryst.com/2012/10/napoleon-rides-bareback-on-erotic-steed.html

After a couple of weeks, Wellington got tired of waiting for the Spanish and ordered the Mixed Model Division out of Lisbon, to distract the French from attacking the various British companies trying to destroy bridges and evacuate towns. The mood among the regiment was festive, and the aviators were equally high-spirited. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s proposing a third round of flights for regimental wives and children rather added to this happiness, for the enlisted men were the most agreeable and tractable when they had their wives and mistresses about them, and this third group could all easily fit on Antiope and Wollstonecraft.  After a little discussion with both Captain Bennet and Mrs. Gowing, it was decided that the camp followers would be transported between halves of the regiment, so that the wives and children were never left without protection— and so that the Yellow Reapers, who had not the strength or stamina of the Longwing or the Regal Copper, would have a little break between flights.

The children proved much happier with this arrangement than their mothers, but the fact that the two captains helping them fly from place to place were women went a certain way to allaying the fears of the ladies and the soldiers’ wives.

Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself singing under his breath as they slowly loaded the last half of the regiment onto dragon back. He was not the only one moved to song— his regiment’s nickname of 'Robin Redbreasts,' was perhaps embarrassing to his parents and his brother officers, but it was apt. They were almost always singing while on the march, and very frequently when they were not.

“O’er the hills and o’er the main,” began one of the sergeants near him, “in India, Portugal, and Spain! King George commands and we obey: over the hills and far away.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam called out, “Missing Kent, Derbyshire, and Nottinghamshire, sergeant!”

“It don’t scan, sir,” said the sergeant, to the laughter of his particular company.

“It’s included in the main,” suggested a corporal.

“And, any road, it’s Queen Anne, not King George,” called another sergeant. “And it’s supposed to be Flanders first—”

The sergeant said, in his battlefield bellow, “Him what starts the song sets the chorus!” He added to this the verse, “Then fall in lads behind the drum, with colors blazing like the sun—” the ensign with the colors raised them up proudly “—along the road to come what may, over the hills and far away!”

The redcoats took up the song, with the chorus the sergeant had amended. They all knew that Colonel Fitzwilliam was musical, and liked to hear them sing. He would ignore any number of infractions, if the men were singing and headed in the right direction.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was a little nervous when the horses were loaded into the flying stable, and tried not to show it, but Captain Bennet noticed anyhow.

“Your robin redbreasts all sing so sweetly,” said Captain Bennet. She pushed her aviator’s goggles up into her dark hair and winked at him. “They shall take to the wing just as well, I assure you.”

He watched anxiously as Maestro Montoya, her dragon, and three unharnessed English courier weights took their places and raised the stable platform. “But will the horses?” It was stupid, considering all he had seen, all the friends of his who had died or been injured in battle, but if something happened to Dulcinea, Colonel Fitzwilliam was sure his heart would break.

“You haven't seen a horsefly?” she quipped.

He managed a smile.

“D’you know we have our songs too?” she tried, which actually distracted him. “Not quite so many as you do! It is harder to hear on dragonback and the air is so thin at points we must save our breath, but....” she waved at her second in command, and sang out, “What shall we toss o’er the wing, o’er the wing? What shall we toss o’er the wing?”

She had a pretty, light soprano, not quite trained,  but pleasing to the ear.

“We toss quite anything, oh yes quite everything, o’er the wing, o’er the wing,” Lieutenant Lucas sang back, in a rough, but enthusiastically loud alto.

“Bombs,” suggested Wollstonecraft.

The midwingmen caught up the tune. “We toss bombs o’er the wing, o’er the wing, we toss bombs o’er the wing! We toss quite anything, oh yes quite everything, o’er the wing, o’er the wing!” The goal of this song was to come up with increasingly absurd things to toss over the dragon’s wing, a goal which Colonel Fitzwilliam’s men strived towards with eagerness. From bombs they went to Frenchmen, hats, cats, and cricket bats, Napoleon Bonaparte, unruly midwingmen, provosts, the board of Admiralty, and Captain Smith (after he almost slid out of harness). To Colonel Fitzwilliam’s surprise, he was not quite as nervous either for himself or for his horse while this distracted. He was able to sit next to Captain Bennet in relative cheer, singing along and laughing at some of the suggestions.

Once they were all reunited, Captain Wyndham, who had been in charge of scouting the area, reported further good news: the bridge they had been sent to destroy had only a company of French infantry as defense.  

This first skirmish against the French actually went quite well, because Colonel Fitzwilliam mostly deployed the light company, to distract the men long enough for Wollstonecraft to spit acid at the bridge’s supports, until the bridge fell entirely into the gorge below. They repeated this particular maneuver multiple times, varying their targets as required by Wellington and the Corps of Engineers. The main bulk of men and aviators, with less to do and a number of triumphs accorded to their division, began to grow not just comfortable, but familiar with each other. Then, too, Colonel Fitzwilliam began to grow more familiar with how Captain Bennet deployed each part of her formation which, in turn, made it easier for him to deploy his own regiment in support.

The ferals operated more in concert with the infantry than the other dragons, or on their own, like the Spanish guerillas that were coming out of every mountain and path to harass the French at random intervals. Captain Bennet always lead attacks herself, with Laconia on Wollstonecraft’s right, Attia on her left, and Antiope behind. Antiope was used mostly to shock and awe (when she wasn’t used to fetch and carry), though Captain Bennet had a favorite maneuver where Wollstonecraft abruptly flew up, and Laconia and Attia peeled off to either side, so that Antiope flew headlong into any unsuspecting French middleweight or smaller. Attia Captain Bennet reserved as her defense. Captain Harville was a defensive rather than an offensive flyer, and Attia was too nervous a dragon to be trusted in individual actions on her own. She was calmest when sheltering by Wollstonecraft, and her loyalty was such that she could be provoked into fits of spectacularly effective fighting if the people or dragons she cared about were threatened. Then too, Wollstonecraft was the chief target of any French attack, for her acid-spitting abilities, and because she was formation leader; it was necessary to have always some kind of guard watching Wollstonecraft’s back.

Laconia was the dragon of choice for individual engagements or daring actions. Though a taciturn creature in conversation, Laconia was rather showy in battle. She loved a dramatic entrance, or a feat of spectacular flying or fighting. Captain Wentworth was, himself, a brilliant man for single combat— gifted, quick, and daring. He was able to see openings few others did and fly straight at them, capable of being shrewd without being tricky or dishonorable, and capable of being ferocious without being vicious. The more he saw Captain Wentworth in combat, the more Colonel Fitzwilliam was impressed— and the more disgruntled Gowing and the other married officers tended to be.

A dashing, daring, handsome dragon captain, with a penchant for wandering about only in shirtsleeves was difficult to resist; and when one added to this the tenderness with which he treated his dragon, and the care he took of his cadets and midshipmen, he had all the ladies sighing. Even (perhaps especially) the married ones.

“I can’t even blame the chap!” Gowing drunkenly exclaimed, after dinner one evening. “He doesn’t put on a display, or anything of the sort! He just is _naturally like that_! Bloody insufferable. I’d say I take a good care of my ensigns, but does Kate ever sigh over my recalling Ensign Harris is from Somersetshire? No!”

“Maybe if you wandered about undressed she might,” groused Captain Smith, “My Molly’s always on Captain Wentworth and Captain Bennet swordfighting again, isn’t his form so _wonderful_ , he’s so gracious when Captain Bennet inevitably defeats him—”

“What’s worse,” said Major Lennox, “is his habit of personally washing any of Laconia’s wounds.”

“How is that objectionable?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, who generally had more pressing concerns after an action that ‘What is Captain Wentworth Doing’ and was wondering with some asperity why his officers did not.

“He’s so _good_ with his dragon,” said Captain Smith, unwillingly. “And sometimes after a very hot action he takes his shirt off!”

“It's almost worse if he gets in the river in his shirt and trousers,” said Gowing.

“Is the problem that he isn't wearing his shirt or that he is?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked.

“It's an equal problem,” decided Captain Smith, looking about his fellow officers. They all nodded. “If he wears his shirt it gets rather... transparent.”

“Do you want him swimming in full kit?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, acidly. “Boots alone could pull a fully-grown man down.”

“I should like him dressed a bit more formally,” muttered Gowing, in rather a pet.

“For God’s sake, gentlemen!” expostulated Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Gowing doubled down. “Look, Fitz, I know we have to accustom ourselves to the ways of the aviators, but really, I don't think this is an unreasonable line to draw.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam dragged his hands down his face, and said, with heavy sarcasm, “You gentlemen will have to forgive the observation but I really think the issue is with yourselves rather than with Wentworth. I notice that none of the female officers or wives in the Aerial Corps are distracted from the course of their duties by Wentworth’s going about in shirtsleeves when he isn’t in flying leathers. Commander Benwick and Captain Harville are often in their shirtsleeves too, but they seem to have _miraculously_ escaped the notice of everyone.”

The officers sunk into a rather sulky silence.

“What’s the solution you gentlemen are waiting to hear then?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, acidly enough for the words to eat through metal. “Would you like me to give blanket permission to officers to go about without their coats on, when not on duty? Shall I issue blindfolds to your wives lest they be tempted? Should I ban all infantrymen, officers, and camp followers from going to the river while the aviators are bathing their dragons?”

But the officers were all gentlemen, and aghast at the idea of appearing less than fully clothed, no matter the circumstance. Their issue, Major Lennox took pains to point out, was not with their wives. Women were the weaker sex; they could not help themselves. Their issue was with Captain Wentworth. Or rather his clothes. Or rather, his lack thereof.

“Would you all stop complaining about Captain Wentworth if I asked Captain Bennet to make him wear more of his uniform?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, at last. He supposed his was grateful that the only complaints his officers had about the aviators was that Captain Wentworth was far too appealing to the ladies, but it was not a complaint he thought he’d ever have to bring to any commanding officer.

‘Still,’ he thought to himself, as all the officers, grudgingly agreed to this measure, ‘better this than any disrespect to the female officers.’

He arrived at Captain Bennet’s tent in time to see Captain Wentworth himself, looking damnably dashing in his shirtsleeves and open waistcoat, booted and trousered legs outstretched. He sat with a glass of port, across a camp table from Captain Bennet. She was in her usual at-ease outfit of boots, trousers, waistcoat, and shirt with collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled to the elbows. She had her elbow on her desk and her chin propped in her hand, and elegantly gestured at Colonel Fitzwilliam to wait as Captain Wentworth continued his bitter lament about his midwingmen.

“A moving story,” said Captain Bennet. “But you’re not passing Midwingman Musgrove onto me.”

“But Bennet,” said Captain Wentworth, in tones of outraged incredulity, “he cut his right hand at fencing practice today. When they are practicing against unarmed straw dummies. _His right hand_!”

“Is he left-handed?”

“ _No_.”

Her lips twitched. “I am alive with curiosity as to how he managed that.”

“It is a mystery I did not care to look into too deeply, for fear of depressing myself.” He sighed gustily. “ _But_ , if you exchanged him onto Wollstonecraft for even Midwingman Webb, then you could solve it yourself—”

“No, Midwingman Webb will remain on a Longwing,” said Captain Bennet. “It’s what Admiral Roland promised Mrs. Webb when she allowed Midwingman Webb to join up.”

“On Wollstonecraft specifically?”

“‘She will be with other female officers, reporting to female officers,’ was the exact promise.”

“But I have Lieutenant Fairfax as my first,” he protested.

“No,” said Captain Bennet, giving him a look.

“But you take such delight in the follies of others!”

“My enjoyment of human folly does not extend to having incompetent officers perpetually about me, as you well know.”

He groaned. “Lizzy, you are a tyrant!”

“Freddy, you are a whining fusspot,” she replied, imperturbable. “When next we are in Lisbon, I will see about transferring Dick Musgrove to Captain Granby; Granby has trouble keeping officers and might be grateful to take on even Musgrove. But that is all I can do for you at present.”

Captain Wentworth made a noise indicative of his misery and distress.

Captain Bennet laughed at him. “Get on with you, before Charlotte comes in and starts muttering about insubordination. And here’s Colonel Fitzwilliam, anyhow.”

It was a bit awkward having to bring up his officers’ objections, and Colonel Fitzwilliam first brought up the need for a make and mend day for his enlisted men, and the possibility of remaining in place long enough for this. This was cheerfully agreed to. Colonel Fitzwilliam emptied the glass of port she had offered him, and did not object when she refilled it. He felt thoroughly stupid when he said, “Er... Captain Bennet. I have another, more awkward request for you. Also in regards to clothing.”

“I suppose your officers do not like how slapdash our uniforms are?”

“I am afraid so.”

She sighed. “Is it me and the other female officers?”

“No! God no. If you must know—” he still could not think of a good way to phrase it, and said, haltingly, “—they are... they take objection to how often Captain Wentworth goes about in his shirtsleeves, and the times he takes his shirt off altogether.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“It distracts the ladies, and makes their husbands jealous.”

Captain Bennet burst out laughing. Lieutenant Lucas came in, rather curious, and Captain Bennet, still wheezing with amusement, managed to warn her about the dangers of Captain Wentworth’s shirtsleeves.

“Oh dear,” said Lieutenant Lucas mildly, taking away Captain Bennet’s port glass before it could spill. “Well, captain, we are heading further into Spain. It is deeply Catholic country. If you say that we must all be more careful about dressing so as not to offend the local populace it will be grumbled at but not questioned.”

Captain Bennet’s voice was still unsteady with laughter when she said, “I shall issue the order but I daresay it won't do much good.”

“No, but I think infantry officers take some comfort in hearing an order has been issued,” Lieutenant Lucas said, glancing at the red-faced and deeply embarrassed Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I hope you will not mind my saying so, sir, but that is all the good such an order will do.” She saluted and exited the tent, to draw up the order.

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned back to Captain Bennet. “Is this a problem you have run into before?”

“No, it's just one Captain Crawford thought we might have,” Captain Bennet said, still grinning. “I admittedly find it difficult to think of _Freddy Wentworth,_ who was a mid with me on Excidium, and who—for about five years—stubbornly insisted he looked good with a military queue when he clearly didn't, as an object of romantic interest. But I must, alas, confirm my first lieutenant's assessment.”

“I was afraid you'd say that,” he said. “I had the sneaking suspicion the issue was with my officers. I told them as much, but they did not like to acknowledge the possibility— and if I went and did something they wouldn't treat Captain Wentworth badly or unjustly in some kind of petty revenge.”

“Just as I thought you would,” said Captain Bennet, breaking out into a smile. “The sketch I made of your character is one of my favorites. Every subsequent action of yours matches the initial outline. I think myself rather a proficient, when it comes to measuring men, but this is my best likeness yet.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was a little nonplussed by this, and said, “Indeed? I am not sure if I should be glad to be so transparent or alarmed I have not much complexity. But you always mention your hobby when there are too many conversational threads for me to grab at— and I am more curious to know if your judgment matches up with mine, in terms of the flaws of my officers.”

“I don't think it will,” said Captain Bennet, relocating her glass of port. “For you will attribute nobler motivations to your officers than I.” She tipped off her glass and held out the bottle to him. “You may need some liquid courage to hear what I have to say about them.”

He finished off his glass as handed it over, to be polite. “You don't think it is motivated by the love my officers feel for their wives, and their desire to please them, and their anger and annoyance that they cannot, with all their efforts, when Captain Wentworth can without thinking about it?”

“No indeed! I think it is motivated by misunderstanding. I have noticed that the actual fancies of women match not at all to the fancies men attribute to us. Judging by the objections you reported to me, the men think their wives are motivated purely by physical attraction. But I am rather convinced it is his _manner_ they are admiring. I hesitate to speak for all of my sex, but if you allow the generality— women want to know they shall not be harmed. To give ourselves, and control of ourselves to men is one of the most dangerous things we can do. I speak even of respectable giving up. When a woman marries she turns all her rights, her properties, her incomes, her actions, her travels— in short, her very independence— over to her husband. It was Captain Crawford’s theory that the sight of a strong man being gentle and nonthreatening, especially to animals and children, over which the law says he has complete dominion, reassures a woman rather than not. And I daresay Wentworth’s being so good about losing to me on the fencing piste helps too.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam sat and quietly absorbed this. Marriage had never been characterized as such to him before and it rather startled him. Marriage for men— at least in his circles and in his rank of life— was as necessary and chancy as for women. Or so he had thought. His uncle Billy (or Prime Minister Pitt the Younger, to those outside the family circle) had never married, and this had always been characterized as a handicap. Having no wife to manage his house had caused him to go massively into debt; no wife to receive female visitors had cut him off from the soft power that moved Whig politics along; no wife to arrange his social schedule for him had given him a reputation for being unapproachable. But, then again, his uncle  wasn't considered an unacceptable drain on his family, as some spinsters were, or horrifically abnormal. Merely acceptable eccentric.

He said, trying to work through this idea, “I was always brought up to think the general idea behind a good marriage is that both members should be the gainers in a given union, or their families should be, at least. Do you agree with Captain Crawford then?”

“I never really thought about marriage much until Captain Crawford joined up,” Captain Bennet replied. “Before the Corps, she knew she must marry, and was terrified of it. I've never had to think about marriage, thank God. I always knew I should have a dragon.” She paused. “Not this early though.”

“Early responsibility seems to be something of a theme for our generation of officers,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You rose pretty magnificently to the occasion.”

She laughed. “As did you, colonel. That is... there are still times where I profoundly miss my aunt and wish she were still alive and Wollstonecraft’s captain, but that is because I miss her, not because I regret the course my life has taken. I would not trade my lot with any woman, be she princess or heiress.”

“Even in so dangerous a profession?”

“It is only as dangerous as yours. Why, would you change your lot?”

After a moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Honestly, I do not know. I did not... precisely choose this life, but at the point where I was put on the military track, and pointed forward, it seemed to me there were no other paths to follow. I do not....” He paused. “Sometimes I do not like my profession. Up until ‘05 I was often troubled by how I was ordered to fight and what it was I was ordered to fight for. Until Wellington took charge in India, I was... I was rather ashamed of what I was being ordered to do there. Even now, I cannot look on my service with complete ease.”

He had only confessed this to Darcy, before. He did not know why he was now telling this to Captain Bennet; it was not out of loneliness, per se, but instead the careful solitude in which he kept these thoughts, hidden behind high walls of precedence and propriety and the stern insistence that this was just how things _were_ . Captain Bennet had a tendency to jostle this barrier unthinking acceptance and assumption about his society. All sorts of things would come sliding out, when the neat, destabilizing turns of her conversation upset his previous ideas. It was the verbal equivalent of a fencing move of hers Colonel Fitzwilliam had long admired, where with a deft flick of her wrist her opponent’s foil would spring out of their hand. Then too, he thought, looking into his once again empty glass, he was bloody drunk. He'd had wine with dinner, brandy and port with his officers and now... three? Four? Well, _many_ glasses of port with Captain Bennet. His defenses were always particularly low when he was drunk, which was why he generally avoided being in such a state.

Captain Bennet looked at him thoughtfully. “You needn't answer it, but might I ask you a personal question?”

“I suppose.”

“Why aren't you married?”

“I cannot afford a wife at present,” he said, with a smile.

“Afford? I should think an earl’s son could afford what he liked!”

“Not the _younger_ son of an Earl, and not an Earl whose properties were deliberately destroyed by the French.” He added, “I can also tell you the pretty terrible secret that I am actually named Richard William Fitzwilliam, in honor of my uncle Pitt the Younger, who was also my godfather. It was almost plain William Fitzwilliam, but my mother refused, saying she could hear my peers at Eton taunting me already. I was then given the name Richard after my father’s younger brother, who had died at the Battle of Baton Rouge in the American Gulf Campaign, the year previous.”

Captain Bennet tried sincerely hard not to laugh as she opened a new bottle of port. “William Fitzwilliam? That's ah. Unique.”

“Thank God for there being multiple younger sons, eh?” he asked, finishing off his glass, and holding it out for a refill. “Though it did backfire a little. It is the usual hope of younger sons to inherit from relatives they have been named to honor, but with one dead before I was born and the other leaving behind nothing but his debts— well and this,” he added, working the signet ring off his smallest finger, and passing it to Captain Bennet. “I was luckily on home leave when Uncle Billy went into his decline. My mother heard he'd had a billious attack and sent me to see how he was— which was badly. I think he was well aware it was the end; he asked for his particular friend, William Wilberforce, specifically to talk about religion, which is a subject most people avoid with Mr. Wilberforce, if they can help it—” Wilberforce being one of those committed evangelicals springing up everywhere, who rather harped on the salvation of those around him “— and he gave me his ring, telling me to always be mindful of my duty to my country. Our families owed service to our nation, for the privileges it had granted us. It quite broke my heart when he told me he was sorry he could not leave England in a better state for me and my cousins. He said some other sentimental stuff I shan't bore you with, and then my cousin Hester and I sat in an antechamber being maudlin until it was all over.”

“I am sorry,” said Captain Bennet, softly. “I know what it is to have to see the person who were named after on their deathbed.”

“Did you...?”

“They sent a courier for me,” said Captain Bennet, looking in such a fixed way at the ring he knew she wasn't really seeing it. “I knew it was bad. Captain Roland looked so bleak when she told me I was needed at Dover. I hopped right off of Excidium’s back onto Volatilus. Got there in time to see Wollstonecraft quite mad with grief and my poor aunt trying to comfort her.” She paused. “It's terrible, how Aunt Bess had to comfort everyone around her for the fact of her death. She took it on, but I wouldn't have done it. I would have been in a rage. Poor Aunt Bess, she was still trying to stand and talk, even though she'd taken a sword to the lungs, and her doctor and lieutenants were all chasing after her, to get her to rest. I embraced her when I saw her and she sort of collapsed against me. I think she knew she could rest now that I was there to pick up things. You know, she apologized too? ‘I’m damned sorry Lizzy,’ she said to me. ‘I thought you'd have twenty years more to learn your trade. But God bless you for starting now.’ I like to think she died easier, or less unhappy, for my being there.” She realized she was still holding the ring and passed it back with a chipper, “It is a lovely ring. Clever of him only to have an image of Britannia rather than initials.”

“Yes! Dead useful. I use it to seal all my documents these days.” He worked the ring back on. "It's probably the thing I value most, outside of a stable, but it's not really something one can use to keep a wife in tolerable comfort, or pay for Eton for one’s sons. Honorable connections and a constant reminder of one's duty to one's country mean very little to tradesmen.”

“Stuff and rot. I know you are paid at the same rate as I am. Admiral Roland insisted upon it. Eight hundred pounds a year is more than most have to live on.”

“All of which tends to be spent on my gear, supplies, and horses,” he replied wryly. “I cannot see how a _lady_ can survive on the perhaps hundred pounds left over, if I am extremely lucky and do not need to replace anything more than once.”

“Maybe not a woman from your circles,” she admitted. “You are so effective a soldier I sometimes forget how posh you are.”

“Thank you, I think,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Captain Bennet laughed. “It is a compliment! In my experience, the wealthier the officer, the more useless they are.”

“I don't particularly disprove your point.”

“I suppose not, which means I may still rely on my first impressions as good markers of people.” She grinned. “Alright, colonel; I shall do my best to appease your officers, but I do not think they will be truly happy until they understand that women are a _little_ different from the stereotype of us held up as truth by society.”

 

***

 

Captain Bennet was quite right, and the infantry officers sulked until the French began to send their mixed aerial and infantry divisions against the Mixed Model Division. Then they were too tired to pay attention to Captain Wentworth, and then, embarrassingly, they began to need him. When the division was surprised on the wing, the infantry officers all found themselves on the front lines, and had to learn an entirely new method of fighting, that did not rely upon the strategic deployment of their men. After some consultation with Colonel Fitzwilliam, Captain Bennet asked her officers to assist the infantry officers, and though Lieutenant Lucas remained the favorite fencing instructor, Captain Wentworth was so consistently helpful, the officers grudgingly laid down their complaints against him.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was relieved at this, for he had other problems to concern him: namely, that he was a terrible fencer.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had never been good at close combat fighting; he had never been trained for it particularly. An earl’s son (and, more importantly, the Prime Minister’s nephew) was too valuable an ensign to waste in the front lines, and during any battle he was given the regimental colors, and stationed behind the ranks, surrounded by the most experienced sergeants. When he had been made a Lieutenant he had been appointed quartermaster. He had been a very good quartermaster— pleasant, and diplomatic, with the right connections to make sure his regiment was always well-supplied, and the good manners to create more if his own network proved insufficient— and on the basis of his good manners and the good wines he had been able to procure, when he had been made a captain he had also been made an aide-de-campe. As an aide-de-campe he had picked up a great deal on how to command six hundred men and officers, and innumerable wives and camp followers, but he was removed yet further from the thick of the fighting. Occasionally he discharged his pistol, when someone wanted a message he was carrying from his colonel to his general, but he only raised his sword to form honor guards.

He had not been a major long before the French invaded; and even then his duties felt more like the quaretmasterly tasks he had always done. He was in a constant fret over supplying and feeding his men; the first object of his orders were always to ensure the companies under his command made it to the destinations Wellington— then a mere Sir Arthur— ordered him to go. After being abruptly made a colonel when the French killed or captured all the higher ranking officers of his regiment, Colonel Fitzwilliam had turned his mind to tactics and strategy. A colonel could not concern himself with swordplay or shooting; he had more lives than his own to worry about. The NCOs and younger officers had gratifingly understood that as he must watch out for them, and determine the best orders to keep them safe while fulfilling their objectives, so they too must watch out for him. The French had a habit of trying to pick off officers— and why not? With so many untrained men pressed into military service, as soon as the officers were gone, the redcoats flung down their arms and either ran or surrendered. Gowing and Pattinson in particular had been his guardian angels, pushing away any assailant who had broken through their lines or surprised them from behind, before Colonel Fitzwilliam had even reached for his sword.

Darcy had called it loyalty.

Perhaps it was, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had known it was loyalty sprung from the fearful knowledge that he was the only officer in a hundred miles with more than five years experience in the army, and an actual knowledge of the terrain of Derbyshire and Northern England. If someone had shot Colonel Fitzwilliam, no one would have been able to replace him. Gowing would have made a good stab of it, but he had gone from a lieutenant to a Lieutenant-Colonel in the space of eight months. He would have collapsed under the strain.

The Aerial Corps was as concerned with the safety of its commanding officers, if not moreso, but their concern manifested itself much differently. The object of any aerial battle was to take out a dragon, and one of the most effective methods of doing so was to seize the dragon’s captain.

Captain Bennet had therefore spent her fourteen years of service being drilled relentlessly on how to defend herself. That was not to say she did not know how to deploy her Longwing effectively, or how to give orders to her men; only that for Colonel Fitzwilliam promotion meant increasing the numbers of men between himself and the front lines, and for Captain Bennet, promotion meant that the lines of battle crept towards her. The closer she came to being a captain, the closer the battle came.

He had been taught to command; she to fight.

“It's something of a statement on the expectations of our sexes, is it not?” Captain Bennet asked one evening, when they were sharing a bottle in _vinho verde_ after a bout. After seeing him fumblingly try to hold off a boarding party, she had offered to tutor him herself, and with a delicacy no doubt instilled by Lieutenant Lucas, fenced with him out of the sight of his other officers, so that he would not lose face with them over his remarkable lack of swordsmanship.

“How is it a statement on the sexes?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You must issue orders to your subordinates in scenes of considerable danger and confusion and so must I; in that we are equals.”

“Insofar as we both have a large number of people relying on our judgement and therefore vastly concerned for our safety, yes, that is true. But men are taught and encouraged to lead and command their fellow men. They are taught to expect obedience— why they even require their wives to vow to it when they are married. Women, if they do not wish to obey, must learn to fight. Very little is naturally given to us, sometimes not even the right of refusal, and so must fight for everything we want.” Captain Bennet refilled her glass and inquiringly held out the bottle.

Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I would think that the difference in the actual experience of command relies more on numbers than anything else. I have more men and therefore more to put between myself and the enemy. You have fewer and also dragons.... and so the parallel breaks down.”

“You think it more a statement on the pragmatics of the service?”

“Yes?” He attempted to think through what she had told him, but he was desperately weary. She had knocked the sword out of his hand thirty times in as many minutes. “I am sure you are more correct on the status of women in society but my being a bad swordsman doesn't have much to do with it.”

Captain Bennet looked at him with amused exasperation. “Really, Colonel Fitzwilliam, must you always be so relentlessly gallant? It makes me feel so gauche for knocking the sword from your hand.”

He laughed. “I can't say it's gallantry really, just well-intentioned ignorance.”

“I did not mean to offend—”

“Oh, hardly,” he said dismissively. “Statement of fact. Cry friends with me, Captain Bennet.”

“Friends?” she echoed, a little puzzled, but at his extending a hand to her to shake, she took it and agreed, beaming, “Yes. Friends.”

With this came a marked increase in friendliness. They chatted more when aloft, and sought each other out after dinner just to chat, rather than talk over regimental business. They also began to compare letters from home— or rather, political cartoons that her father and his sister-in-law sent them. They both received a copy of the first cartoon to feature their division: _The Living Saviors of England Open a New Theatre of War._ In it, Admiral Roland (one could tell by the exaggerated facial scar and green uniform), had a bubble reading, “My Leading Ladies take only Breeches Roles!” and General Wellington (one could tell by the nose and blue coat with star) had a bubble coming out of his mouth reading, “I call it ‘A Tragedy for the French!’”

They were both striking poses like John Kemble’s Propsero in a recent, Drury Lane production of _The Tempest_ , and held back infantry red and aerial green curtains to reveal a tangle of redcoats and four dragons in formation above them. The dragons were the right breeds even if they were not accurate representations _of_ said breeds, and the right captains were on the right dragons. The Longwing took up the center of the cartoon, its wingtips touching each curtain. On it flew a slight woman in full dress uniform, hair in a military queue, helpfully labeled ‘Captain Bennet.’ Above her, from right to left, were Captain Wentworth (looking generically handsome), Captain Crawford (looking generically beautiful), and Captain Harville (looking generically British). Of the ferals and poor Commander Benwick there was no sign. Directly beneath Captain Bennet three mounted officers rose before faceless soldiers: on the right, on a rearing black charger was a brown figure labeled ‘Captain Wyndham’; on the left, his high forehead unkindly exaggerated, was a thin figure labeled ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing’; in the center, hat politely upraised in a salute, on a horse recognizably Perrault, was a beautifully uniformed figure labeled ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam.’ He thought it not a bad representation of his face, particularly the raised eyebrows accompanying the polite smile, which gave the figure an air both sarcastic and slightly befuddled.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had his copy framed behind glass. Captain Bennet passed hers around the camp until it became too grubby to read.

Colonel Fitzwilliam's sister-in-law sent the kinder ones that followed, where Captains Bennet and Crawford looked pretty and had on all their clothing. Captain Crawford, having been a society belle before becoming infamous, always looked like herself or an exaggeration of herself, but Captain Bennet had been a military secret before going to the Peninsula. The only thing the illustrations of Captain Bennet had in common were her uniform and military queue of dark hair. Her looks otherwise tended to fluctuate with the political leanings of the artist. Colonel Fitzwilliam's own looks were more stable. He was a sarcastically befuddled British Everyman of some variety, and the difference between soldier-trying-valiantly-to-do-his-duty and Wellington’s-dupe was disappointingly slender.

“Why is your face so consistent?” Captain Bennet asked one evening. “I'd lief as not have the British public recognize me, but I wonder you do not vary as much.”

“My mother,” he said with a sigh.

“What?”

“She’s a patroness of the arts,” he replied. “Where other countesses gamble away their pin money or lose it to their modiste and jewelers, she is perpetually in debt to art dealers. She is happy to collect, but to commission is her particular pleasure. After Shoeburyness, she decided to get portraits of the whole family from Sir Thomas Lawrence. Mine was the first completed, since I was in London on leave for injuries and couldn't do much anyways. I just sat on Perrault in full dress uniform, raising my hat and trying not to look terrifically bored. It was in some salon or other. I don't know if it's still there or if she managed to take it home.”

“Is that why you seem to be raising your hat in all of these?”

“Yes, though it appears some were working off an engraving rather than the portrait itself— I had to raise my hat with my left hand, as grapeshot to the right shoulder tends to limit one’s range of mobility on that side. When I was sitting on Perrault for the portrait, I cheated a bit and just rested my right hand on the saddle horn instead of actually holding the reins.”

“I shall take care to never have my portrait painted then,” said Captain Bennet. “Oh, but I nearly forgot to tell you— my sister Mary is to be married!”

“Congratulations! Is her fiancé known to you?”

“Oh no,” Captain Bennet said. “It's some cousin of ours, upon whom my father’s estate is entailed. None of us knew any more about him than his general existence, until this year. Mary is very pleased— I think she is pleased? She filled two sheets with extracts at least. And my mother has written as well. Only some of it is to ask after prize money, and if Mary might have some for her dowry. How much does a woman’s dowry have to be?”

“I suppose it depends on the groom.”

“It is a cousin— a clergyman by the name of Mr. Collins. Mary has a thousand pounds in the five percents at present, which my mother does not think sufficient.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was surprised it was so little, but recalled Captain Bennet's grandfather had been a merchant who doubted his own prospects enough to sign his first daughter over to the Aerial Corps; and that her father’s estate was entailed. “I am not sure I can be the best person to answer you; my sisters all married knights or peers.”

“And pray,” asked she, eyes dancing, “how much did _their_ husbands cost?”

“Each of my sisters paid thirty thousand pounds for the privilege of their spouses,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, amused. “My sister-in-law paid fifty, for the not very great privilege of marrying my elder brother, and being someday a Countess.”

Captain Bennet was clearly shocked by those sums, and said, “Good God, how expensive fine husbands are! I certainly could not afford to get Mary a knight.”

Wollstonecraft, who had been listening in, said, “A clergyman is cheaper, surely?”

“I daresay,” agreed Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying to recall how much his friend Henry Tilney's wife had brought to their union. “They ought to be about... a tenth the cost?”

Captain Bennet relaxed a little. “A bargain!”

“I suppose,” said Wollstonecraft.

“You do not think so?”

“Two thousand pounds on Mary,” muttered Wollstonecraft, “is a waste of capital.”

“It is not a waste, it is ensuring the happiness and above all, the _respectability_ of my sister,” said Captain Bennet, reprovingly. “For love of _you_ , beast that you are, I daily threaten the respectability of my sisters. It comes as a great relief to be able to so definitively guard against the possibility of ruining the reputation and prospects of at least _one_ of my sisters.”

“Why,” asked Wollstonecraft coolly, “should your service in the Corps not be respectable? Why should _I_ be in the least disreputable? I am no hatchling, and I have never tried to steal anything, like Iskierka, or committed treason, like Temeraire, or done anything but my duty. And I have helped you to get some very handsome medals, and you have got a title that is all your own, that you do not owe to some man’s giving it to you for giving him an egg.”

This was rather an odd view of marriage.

“I am not sure I could explain it,” said Captain Bennet doubtfully. “It has to do with how humans give each other eggs and pass on treasure. Humans are not like dragons, in the egg— they are blank slates when they are born. So the character, interests, and family of the mother are vastly important. They influence how the hatchling will develop.”

“I do not see how your sister Mary’s hatchling could be negatively affected by your skill in defending England,” said Wollstonecraft.

Captain Bennet laughed. “Put that way, dearest, it does not make very much sense! But I suppose not every man wishes his children to go far from him and join the Corps. And if the mother’s sister is an aviator, there is always the chance the hatchling, if it is female, will go into the Corps. Men do not tend to like their daughters going off and fighting.”

“Men seem to me ridiculous, foolish creatures,” said Wollstonecraft. “You surely cannot be in such want for population that you must keep back all the females who can breed. And, anyhow, Napoleon’s dragon, Lien— she is female and she is the most deadly dragon I have ever met.” Wollstonecraft shivered. “Her divine wind at Shoeburyness....”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt himself turn pale with the memory. He did not understand the mechanics of Lien’s roar, or how she had managed, with her voice alone, to raise up so large a tidal wave, but he recalled the wave of water, high enough to block the sun, and recalled thinking, ‘This is it. This is how I die.’

In the end, he had only been knocked off his horse and soaked through; the Navy had taken the brunt of the attack. But he still could not be easy recalling it. He quickly changed the subject: “It seems a little hard you should have to provide for your sisters, Captain Bennet.”

“Does it? An elder brother would have to do as much. And I have some prize money from my time in the West Indies; I wish to hold the greater part of it for Jane— she is my eldest sister— so she might marry anyone she wishes. But I have not fortune enough to enable her to purchase any kind of title, it appears— especially if I must give something to Mary now, and to Kitty and Lydia later.”

“I only meant that your sisters cannot own the source of their fortune.”

“I think people in trade have the lamentable tendency to do the same,” she said laughing. “And I do not mind. I know that when I am put on half-pay when I am too old or injured to serve I will not need a lump sum to bribe a man into taking care of me. One or other of my sisters will take me in.”

Wollstonecraft grumbled a little at this. “ _I_ shall take care of you, and _get_ you a vast deal of capital. You will never have the leave the service unless you wish it. I do not see why you would wish to purchase a husband, but if you wanted a prince, even, I shall see to it you get one.”

“What a good creature you are,” said Elizabeth, patting the dragon on its enormous forearm. “It heartens me to hear I shall never be in want. And, as it happens, I do not want a prince! I have met the Prince Regent and was not impressed. Standards have fallen significantly since princes were the prize to get.”

Wollstonecraft was mollified.

 

***

 

By the end of July, when they flew along the river Tagus, to a spot immediately north of the town of Talvera, they were quite an effective division. They landed on the high ground called the Cerro de Medellin, and, until the rest of the army caught up, looked threatening enough to prevent the French from crossing the river.

In one of the oddities of contemporary warfare, as neither side had orders to attack, they fell into a companionable truce. They nodded to each other as they fetched water from the river, and Colonel Fitzwilliam saw some of the enlisted men trading their rations with the French. (There were a great deal of French garlic sausages roasting over the campfire that evening.) He himself, when watering Dulcinea at the river’s edge, took his hat off to the colonel of a regiment of French dragoons.

The French colonel did the same and said, conversationally, in French, “Hot, isn't it?”

“Much hotter than England,” he replied.

“Hotter than my part of France, too,” agreed the Colonel. “Me, I am from Rugen, high up the Pyrenees. There is snow almost all the year.”

“My family is from Derbyshire,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied politely, “near the Peak— though it is nothing to the Pyrenees, I know. I am Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir.”

“Colonel the Count of Rugen,” he replied, bowing. He put his right head to his heart and Colonel Fitzwilliam was a little alarmed to see that he had six fingers as opposed to five. “Fêtes-ville-elm... with a zed?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to remember the French alphabet. Eton’s French master would have been ashamed at how little he had managed to beat into his pupil; Colonel Fitzwilliam was forced to take out his memorandum book and write out his name and show it across the river.

“Ah,” said Colonel Rugen, smiling politely, “you I have heard of. It is the great Villanton’s attempt to copy Madame Lien’s ideas.”

“I am afraid my French is not good enough to understand you,” he said, haltingly.

“One moment.” Colonel Rugen dug around in his saddlebags and emerged with a sheaf of papers. “Madame Recamier sent me a most amusing cartoon, knowing I was going to Spain.”

The colonel half stepped into the river to pass him a political cartoon, which read, sarcastically, ‘Artur essai d’etre Pendragon,’ (or ‘Arthur tries to be Pendragon’) which had Wellington, in faux-medieval get-up over his blue coat and white trousers, a much-too-large crown falling over his eyes and balancing on his large nose, behind a round table with various foolish-looking people. Colonel Fitzwilliam was rather flattered to see himself—or a somewhat craggy redcoat with cropped brown hair labeled as himself— at Wellington’s right. This caricature was attempting to put on armor, and failing spectacularly.

A woman in a green coat with a helm on backwards, had been placed at Wellington's left and labeled ‘Captain Bennet.’ A walking facial scar was trying  to pull a lassoed dragon to the table; Colonel Fitzwilliam took this to be Admiral Roland. The other seats were filled by the British infantry generals, in various stages of blithering idiocy.

“Not a bad likeness of me,” he said, holding it up, next to his face.

“Not bad at all,” agreed Colonel Rugen. “But I must say you fellows are behind times. We have integrated dragons into infantry maneuvers for this decade and more. Madame Lien merely improved what was already good.”

“You shall see how we have improved anon.”

Colonel Rugen laughed condescendingly. “Anything would be an improvement.”

“I daresay you are right,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, politely. “May I keep this? I have one of Napoleon to trade you in return.”

“I should like to see how the British see our emperor,” Colonel Rugen replied.

Colonel Fitzwilliam handed over the risque etching he had confiscated from his ensigns that morning, of Napoleon riding on a dragon made of pale, naked women. Every person involved in the picture looked deeply unhappy to be part of it. The French colonel roared with laughter. “What is the title— can you translate?”

“Um— behold the Conqueror's new steed,” he tried, quite mangling French grammatical structures.

“So you are saying our Emperor, he is too busy riding his mistresses to ride his dragon?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was not sure the engraver had approached this image with anything like a coherent thesis in mind, but said, “Er yes, that is the general idea. We always think generals should be ahorse.”

Colonel Rugen smirked. “This is no insult to a Frenchman. Our own Marshal Messina brings his mistress on campaign, in a hussar’s uniform.” He kissed his fingertips. “Women should always wear trousers.”

By now quite assured that the French colonel was not the sort of person he really enjoyed spending time with, Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed and mounted his horse to depart. “Wish you joy of the battle, sir,” he said.

Colonel Fitzwilliam straightened his uniform and rode about the camp, greeting the officers, chatting with the sentries, offering discreet sips of brandy from his personal flask to anyone who needed a little liquid courage to bolster what had not been naturally supplied—  a habit engendered, no doubt, by reading _Henry V_ too young. When he had been very early on in his command he had even tried to make speeches before battles, to which the men dutifully feigned attention, but the noises of battle and the large number of men under his command always made it impossible for everyone to hear him. It was far better to visit with small groups of the men, throughout the evening, speaking kindly to them and toasting to victory. His manner, in these visits, was closely modeled on old Mr. Darcy’s on receiving days at Pemberley, when the renters, villagers, and assorted peasantry would come to look upon the master and eat whatever treats with which the French chef and Mrs. Reynolds hoped to dazzle the commonfolk, and he fancied it always met with the intended effect.

He was at the edge of his own lines, and nearing the encampment of the disgraced Regiment of Detachments that had once been the South Essex, when he spotted a green coat with the insignia of a lieutenant. He moved forward, thinking this one of Captain Bennet’s officers, assisting with sentry duty, when Commander Benwick flew over on Lester, and the lieutenant muttered, “Worm-riding bastards.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said sharply. He had been mistaken; this was the green coat of the riflemen, not the green coat of the Aerial Corps.

The lieutenant looked about to make another smart remark before seeing the epaulettes and gold braid on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s coat and snapping to attention with a salute. “Sir!”

“What were you saying about the Aerial Corps, Rifleman...?”

“Lieutenant Sharpe, sir, 95th Rifles, currently with the South Essex, sir!”

“I'm sorry for that,” Colonel Fitzwilliam was accidentally startled into saying. The South Essex had been sent to blow up a bridge and lost not only a truly mystifying number of men and officers, but also their regimental colors. It had been both an embarrassment and an outrage. To lose the colors was to lose the the very honor of the regiment.

Lieutenant Sharpe snorted.

“At ease,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, resigning himself to not scolding the lieutenant. He was not a terrifically good disciplinarian; whenever he had to flog his men, he felt as personally aggrieved as when he himself had been caned at Eton. He knew it was necessary, but hated what it symbolized: lack of discipline, lack of knowledge, lack of accomplishment. “What is your grievance with the Aerial Corps, lieutenant? I am afraid your regiment does not give you much room to criticize anyone else’s military prowess.”

“Green coat rivalry, sir,” he replied. “We riflemen take a certain pride in having earned our color. I've a Chosen Man who can hit a target at four hundred feet, every time. These flying bastards— they put their seven-year-old drummer boys in green and just lob things down on our heads when trying to aim at the enemy. No skill in that, sir, and the fighting’s all the dragon’s work.”

“Do you fancy trying to have your Chosen Man hit their target four hundred feet in the air, while moving at thirty knots an hour, while another dragon is attacking yours, and a boarding party is attempting to cut down every person about you?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam. “That, I assure you, takes a prodigious amount of skill.”

Lieutenant Sharpe eyed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s uniform, looking for a regimental badge. Colonel Fitzwilliam took an unkind pleasure in smiling and saying, “I beg your pardon, I failed to introduce myself." He nudged Dulcinea into bowing, and lifted his hat. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mixed Model Division.”

Lieutenant Sharpe realized he had erred, but surprisingly doubled down. “Be that as it may, sir, it isn’t a proper service, not like the rifles, or the foot, or the guards.”

“Why, sir?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Because there are female officers?”

To his surprise, Lieutenant Sharpe replied, “Not at all sir. The most effective Spanish guerilla I know is a woman. It’s ‘cos them flying bastards don’t pull their weight. Where were they during the invasion, sir? The only dragons patrolling the Channel were that great black beast that got exiled to New South Wales because his captain went mad and turned traitor, and the flock that follows your regiment about.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam thought this actually quite reasonable, and, leaning over Dulcinea's neck to offer Sharpe his personal flask, he began to explain the plague and its effect; they paused when they heard the noise of thousands of hoofbeats. Lieutenant Sharpe took out a very handsome telescope and looked across the river. “The French aren’t quite attacking, sir.”

“Trying to find out our position?”

Lieutenant Sharpe looked over at the hill, where the feral dragons were heaped on top of each other, in a colorful pile. “I think they are well aware where we are, sir.”

“Ah, they are trying to find the Spanish, then?”

“Shouldn’t doubt it, sir. They’re headed towards the Spanish lines.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam got out his own telescope in time to see the Spanish fire a volly well before it would be of any material use, become frightened of their own volly, and begin shouting “treason!” while breaking their lines and fleeing. Colonel Fitzwilliam stifled a sigh and whistled for Gherni.

“Once more into the breach,” he said, _Henry V_ still on his mind. “Wish you joy of the battle, lieutenant.” He knew it was not precisely done to speak against one’s fellow colonels, but he permitted himself a dry, “And that your colonel’s orders go mysteriously astray.”

Lieutenant Sharpe permitted himself a grin. “Thank you, sir.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam found one of his sixteen-year-old ensigns, bade him hop on Gherni, and said, “Go to General Wellington and tell him that the Spanish have broken line. Mixed Model Division asks permission to reinforce them.”

It was about seven in the evening then; a little defensive flying by Captain Bennet’s formation, and the introduction of the Spanish calvary caused the French to go back to their side of the river, and, after waiting an hour, Colonel Fitzwilliam went to dinner in the mess, and then to bed.

His batman Pattinson roused him at around ten, with the news that the French were trying to take the hill. The now three campaigns under Wellington had caused Colonel Fitzwilliam to believe, deep in the unthinking parts of his mind, where he housed the instinct to freeze when startled, or to call upon God in the scrum of war, that to lose the higher ground was to lose the battle. He bolted out of bed and into shirt, doeskin riding breeches, and waistcoat, before he even finished hearing Pattinson’s report.

The ferals were chattering noisily outside, annoyed to be woken up, and then suddenly let out the shriek that meant an enemy. Muskets fired; men shouted; all was noise and confusion. Colonel Fitzwilliam called for light, orders, information; one of his ensigns reported that the French had gained almost the crest of the hill. They had not realized that a dragon flock had been sleeping there, and realized a little too late the danger of waking sleeping dragons. Colonel Fitzwilliam ordered his light company to assist. Gherni came tumbling down the hill towards the British encampment, trapped in what appeared to be a fishing net and crying out desperately; it would have melted anyone. He dismounted Dulcinea and went over to cut Gherni free.

“There, there,” he crooned, as he used to do when he found kittens in sacks by the river near his father’s estate. “It’s alright, it’s alright, I’ve got you.” The fact that Gherni in no way shape or form resembled a kitten would dart into his consciousness in a sudden flash of panic, causing him to freeze, the netting still tangled about his sword, but then he would push through.

Captain Bennet called down from above, “Fleur-de-nuits!” Colonel Fitzwilliam sent one of his ensigns running off to General Hill, whom Wellington had appointed to hold the center of the line. By this point, Gherni was freed; she rubbed affectionately against him in thanks, quite knocking him over. Colonel Fitzwilliam automatically seized one of the leather straps on her side and hauled himself up.

Gherni chirruped at him.

“Sorry, my dear, I have no earthly idea what you are saying. Gowing!”

“Sir!”

“Tell the captain of the fusiliers to pass out flares. Fire on Captian Bennet's signal to blind the Fleur-de-nuits.”

This was speedily done. As soon as the ensign returned with the message from General Hill, Colonel Fitzwilliam sent the order for fusiliers to make ready. Getting this news to Captain Bennet would be difficult; it was too dark to see signal flags.

Unsure of what else to do, Colonel Fitzwilliam patted Gherni on the snout and said, “I shall need to send you to Wollstonecraft— understand? Wollstonecraft.”

The ferals could by now recognize human names, and attach them to the humans themselves, though attempts at saying human names turned out extremely strange. Gherni bobbed up and down and said something along the lines of, “Whirr-st-[click]-ft!”

“Fleur-de-nuits—” he pointed at one, currently trying to go after both Attia and Laconia “—over there.” He pointed at his company of fusiliers, loudly and noisily loading flares into their guns. He took a moment to scribble a note to this effect in his memorandum book and tucked it securely into Gherni’s collar. “For Captain Bennet. Understand? Captain Bennet.”

Gherni made a noise approximating ‘Captain Bennet’ and launched into the air, speeding away from the Fleur-de-nuits.

Captain Montoya landed beside him, and said, “Orders from General Wellington, sir.”

“Are we to hold the hill?”

“You are to hold the hill.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam remounted Dulcinea and said, as a sort of private joke, “However did I guess? Has he any more information for me, by the by? What regiments are coming against us, or what aerial divisions? I know about Colonel Rugen—”

“What?”

“Colonel Rugen,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, a little puzzled. “He was watering his horse around the same time I was this afternoon. His dragoons are here.”

“Does he have six fingers?” asked Captain Montoya.

“Er, yes?”

“He killed my mother,” said Captain Montoya, savagely. “And stole her dragons.”

“I’d be much obliged if you and your firebreather looked for him on the top of the hill,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.  

Captain Montoya did so. Colonel Fitzwilliam recognized the tones of Captain Bennet's voice, but could not make out the words, but in any event, it was unnecessary. The night blazed with sudden fire. The Fleur-de-nuits gave terrible cries of pain and winged away. After this, Colonel Fitzwilliam swung his telescope up and saw Wollstonecraft swooping in, Laconia and Attia by either wing; his men let up a cheer as they dove into the heart of a gang of snarling Spanish firebreathers wearing French colors.

The enemy dragons scattered like bowling pins. The ferals then swarmed upon the French dragons like bees, driving them back across the river. The French infantry thus had no aerial support— good. “All companies to march up the hill upon my order,” he ordered. “Get on all three sides; make ready to advance whenever you see the enemy has been distracted by Maestro Montoya. Only— no. Make ready to advance, but do not advance yet.” He turned to another ensign. “Go to General Hill and request reinforcements please.”

The South Essex was volunteered and Colonel Fitzwilliam cheerfully allowed this disgraced company to advance first. The men of the South Essex were embarrassed to have lost their colors and fought ferociously to try and make up for it. Before twenty minutes were up, the hill was theirs again, and the French retreated across the river.

The order came to hold; Colonel Fitzwilliam made himself ride about to each company, so that they could see he was not merely unharmed, but visibly pleased with that night’s manouevers, before dropping into an exhausted sleep on his camp bed. Pattinson awoke him again after noon, with food, coffee, and the news that the French were attacking the left flank, through the olive groves of Talavera. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brigade, at the center, was to hold steady, in case the French should launch other attacks.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had not bothered to change out of any of his clothes, and merely shaved and re-tied his cravat before mounting Dulcinea again. She delicately stamped her hooves and tossed her head.

“Alright, my girl,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling cheerful. “Let’s go where you want.”

He gave her her head and was unsurprised when they cantered up to the top of the hill, where Maestro Montoya sat with her dragon.

“Maestro,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, taking off his hat, as Dulcinea pawed the ground and bowed. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Maestro Monto was sitting on her dragon’s outstretched forearm, her unsheathed sword balanced across her knees. Before her lay a corpse in a French colonel’s uniform, one six-fingered hand outstretched toward her, as if in supplication.

“Yes and no,” she said. “I found my mother’s killer. But I want my mother back.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam recalled his conversation last month with Captain Bennet, and with his thumb rubbed his signet ring through the leather of his glove. “I know. There are times I’d give my sword arm to have my uncle Billy back. But there’s no bringing back the dead. There’s only living in a way that shows the goodness of their influence.”

Maestro Montoya looked struck by this and said, “Is that the case for you?”

He considered this. “I... I should like to think so. I do my duty for my county.”

“I have no country,” she said, her expression shuttering.

“Then take it back,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “We did, in England.”

Maestro Montoya said, after a moment, “You are rather a good colonel, I think.”

“I am unmanned by such praise,” he said wryly. “But hold—” He paused. The hypnotic beat of the French drum, interspersed by cries of “Vive l’empereur!” grew steadily stronger. Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled out his telescope and swept it along the bank until he saw the French columns advancing towards the center; and the French aerial forces behind them, rigging themselves out for battle. “We are about to see some action. Excuse me.”

The French attack at the center ended in disaster— for the French. Eight British battalions, ranged in two lines, fired when the French were only fifty feet away, quite destroying the front of the French column. Colonel Fitzwilliam, watching from atop the hill Wellington ordered him to remain on and hold, exclaimed, “By God, the battle might be ours.”

Of course, as soon as he said this, the tide of battle shifted. Cheered by their success, the British battalions advanced until the French aerial corps could swoop in seperate them from their fellows. Admiral Roland’s division flew in to the rescue, but the damage was done. There was a gap in the line.

Maestro Montoya brought the order from Wellington to fill it, and sharpish now. His Grace expected Colonel Fitzwilliam to personally hold the center. The French had surprised them all with a fourth attack, on the Spanish, and Wellington would have to reinforce the Spanish troops with ever free British batallion at his disposal.

“Gowing,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “you’re in charge of keeping the hill. Major Lennox, your men onto the dragons. We’re to fill the gap. Major Farrier, your men to stay with Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam hesitated but dismounted Dulcinea. He supposed he could have gotten away with staying on the hill, and sending Gowing down to the gap, but the men would have commented, and Wellington would have been cutting about it later. Captain Bennet offered him the usual hand up and said, grinning, “What fun! Our first real battle in Spain.”

“You have an unusual definition of ‘fun,’” he replied, and grimly strapped himself in.

They came under attack from French dragons almost immediately.

Captain Bennet turned about, watching the French formations, before shouting, “Lieutenant Lucas! Diversionary tactic two! Let’s make sure Antiope drops off her load of redcoats. Signal to Attia and Laconia to stick to me like glue.”

Lieutenant Lucas nodded and had a midwingman run up the signal flags. Seconds later, Antiope dropped abruptly to the gap in the lines.

“Up, dearest, up!” cried Captain Bennet.

Wollstonecraft grunted and they shot vertically into the clouds, through the French formation, scattering their dragons, before plunging back down again. Attia and Laconia were unshakeable sentinels on either side. For some five minutes, Colonel Fitzwilliam was sure he would be sick all over himself and Wollstonecraft, and he really wondered how all the aviators could seem so unaffected.

He did not have long to work out how this was possible; the French caught up with them and two boarding parties leapt onto Wollstonecraft’s back.

“Engage at will!” bellowed Captain Bennet. She rose to her feet and drew her sword, as a French lieutenant lunged at her with a roar of “Vive l'empereur!”

There were two other aviators with the French lieutenant; two midwigmen bodily threw themselves at the these two. One engaged, and the other immediately shoved Midwingman Webb out of the way and began dodging other aviators, grappling with each other, to advance on Captain Bennet.

Colonel Fitzwilliam managed to pull a pistol from its holster and balance it on his left forearm. It felt impossible to take proper aim, with each jerk of the dragon’s wingbeats, and the wind whipping past him; but the French aviator was gaining on Captain Bennet, still engaged in her swordfight with the French lieutenant. Colonel Fitzwilliam gripped the harness tightly and aimed towards the wind.

Blood spurted from the upper arm of the French aviator; now wounded, the Frenchman stumbled and fell off the dragon entirely.

Captain Bennet involuntarily turned at the sound of the shot, and then towards Colonel Fitzwilliam, before ducking a wild swing from her opponent and rolling as far out of the way as she could while still attached to the harness. The French lieutenant stabbed at her two seconds too late, embedding his rapier in Wollstonecraft’s back.

Wollstonecraft made a politely annoyed noise, the sort Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mother made when she had pricked herself with a needle while sewing, but did not seem otherwise affected. Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to change one pistol for another, but before he had even holstered the first, Captain Bennet had swept the legs of the French lieutenant out from under him, and had her sword at his throat.

“ _Votre parole, Monsieur_!”

The lieutenant yielded with ill-grace; Lieutenant Alleyene cheerfully took control of both sword and lieutenant, tossing the former to Midwingman Webb and the latter down to the bellynetting. No sooner had this boarding party been dispatched than another landed on Wollstonecraft.

Captain Bennet sighed and took a moment to lengthen the straps jointing her harness to her dragon’s before grabbing her pistol with her left hand and shooting the leader of the boarding party. She cracked the hot barrel of the pistol across the face of another boarder, who had knocked the captured sword out of Midwingman Webb’s hands. As he staggered, two French midwingmen flung themselves at Captain Bennet; trying to cut her down; she brought her sword up horizontally above her head to meet them.

Lieutenant Lucas rushed forward, before Colonel Fitzwilliam could think how best to help. She knocked aside one of the midwingmen, who rolled seemingly over the side. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked down to see the young man hauling himself hand-over-hand up the dragon harness. Colonel Fitzwilliam aimed his second pistol; the midwigman cursed at him and then released his grip. A moment later some large white object sprouted out of the Frenchman’s back and slowed his fall.

Colonel Fitzwilliam watched this, quite mystified, and nearly missed the French lieutenant rushing forward to cut though Captain Bennet’s harness straps. The lieutenant began hacking at them ferociously, sparks flying from the edge of his sword where it met the wires inside the thick leather. Colonel Fitzwilliam shot him, and the lieutenant jerked back, ear gone in sudden burst of blood, but the wound was not enough to kill, and the lieutenant brought his sword up again. Colonel Fitzwilliam tucked his pistol into his officer’s sash and clumsily pulled his sword from its sheath.

His bouts with Captain Bennet had proved to him that he was not a particularly skilled fencer and now, hurtling through the sky, too terrified of falling to rise from his knees, he was abysmal. He could manage a clumsy parry or two that Captain Bennet had drilled into him, but the French lieutenant succeeded in hacking through not just Captain Bennet's, but Colonel Fitzwilliam's harness straps with dismaying speed.

Captain Bennet turned and stabbed the French lieutenant seemingly without effort. With an efficient twist of her wrist, she pulled free her sword. “Help me with his carabineers,” she shouted to Colonel Fitzwilliam, who obeyed with all due dispatch.

“Boarders to the larboard side!” cried Lieutenant Lucas.

Captain Bennet kicked the French lieutenant off of Wollstonecraft and called out, “Roll them off my dear!”

Wollstonecraft rolled dizzingly; Captain Bennet latched onto Wollstonecraft's collar. Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to do likewise, but gravity won. He slid off, held by a twisting scrap of leather and wire and thought, giddily, ‘I am going to die. I am going to fall off a dragon onto the middle of a battlefield. If the fall doesn't kill me, the musket fire will.’

Wollstonecraft evened out; Captain Bennet leapt towards him and gripped his forearm, pulling him up with a strength he was not at all surprised to see she possessed. She grasped the back of his uniform coat with her free hand, hauling him over Wollstonecraft’s neck as a fisherman might a net.

“I thank you most sincerely,” he managed to get out, gripping desperately onto the leather straps about Wollstonecraft's neck.

“Oh, only repaying the favor,” said Captain Bennet, tying him to Wollstonecraft's collar with his officer’s sash. “I saw you shoot that lieutenant sneaking up behind me; I am very much obliged.”

They continued aloft, but the skirmish was over. Their duties were only now to swoop down and deposit Colonel Fitzwilliam's last few companies wherever they were needed. The center was saved. The French were forced to withdraw from their attacks on the British left flank and the Spanish right, in order to keep the British from advancing in the center. There was a bit of an artillery duel, with occasional dragonfights above, but the French could not regain their energy.

At the end of the day, they withdrew.

Colonel Fitzwilliam wrote up his dispatches, in between somewhat involuntary snatches of sleep. He was roused from the last of these by Captain Bennet.

“Up and at ‘em, Colonel,” she said, flinging the flap of the tent open. “I set your man to brewing coffee. Time to boast about the success of our division to our commanding officers.”

“You're a morning person, aren't you?” Colonel Fitzwilliam groused.

She laughed. “Hardly! I’m merely unbearable after victories. I drove Lieutenant Lucas mad already. She said to go and plague you. Here’s your coffee— come on! I promised to report to Admiral Roland myself. Did you hear that the South Essex captured an eagle? I think it was a Lieutenant Sharpe.” She kept up this excited stream of conversation until they arrived at Admiral Roland’s tent, where she paused and said, “Admiral Roland! Reporting, as promised! I brought Colonel Fitzwilliam with me.”

“Just a minute!” called out Admiral Roland.

A half-dressed figure in shirt, boots, and cavalry overalls stepped out of the tent, green coat slung over his shoulder, and stock hanging very loosely about his neck.

“Lieutenant Sharpe?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, recognizing the cavalry overalls.

Sharpe turned. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir.”

“Congratulations on the eagle!” he exclaimed. “Really astonishing work, sir!”

“Why thank you sir,” said Lieutenant Sharpe, smirking. “Couldn’t’ve done it without your division drawing off all those French dragons, sir, and no mistake.”

“Changed your mind about aviators then?”

“Greencoats must stick together, sir.” He looked appreciatively at Captain Bennet and saluted, which he had not done for Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Captain.”

“Lieutenant,” she replied, with a nod.

Lieutenant Sharpe went off whistling, tucking a locket on a chain into the neck of his shirt, and lackadaisically doing up the buttons of his uniform.

Colonel Fitzwilliam held the tent flap for Captain Bennet, only to see Admiral Roland wearing only a dressing gown and lighting a cigar.

Captain Bennet turned to look over her shoulder at the retreating figure of Lieutenant Sharpe, and turned back to Admiral Roland with eyebrows raised. Admiral Roland shook out her match, looking smug and self-satisfied.

Colonel Fitzwilliam involuntarily glanced at the rumpled camp bed, and then directed his eyes to the safe, bland canvas side of the tent instead.

“You may find, Captain Bennet,” said Admiral Roland, in a comfortable, complaisant tone, motioning Captain Bennet to enter, “that a bit of rough is just what you need after the rigours of a good battle. Reminds you you’re alive. And, any road, I’m afraid Mr. Laurence has rather put me off aristocratic types for a good long time. Nice to see that sort of fellow lose control, but all that honor guff addles their wits. But come sit and tell me how it all went. Oh, Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She stuck the cigar in the corner of her mouth and, leaning out of the tent, thrust out her hand. Colonel Fitzwilliam shook it, fighting off a blush. “Damn good show. Hope you’re proud of your men. I am sure Wellington wishes to talk to you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam happily acted upon the implicit dismissal. He bowed and very quickly strode off. Fortunately Wellington left his wife (whom he did not like) at home, and was between mistresses, so there was no chance of repeating such an embarrassing scene. Indeed, Wellington was, as per usual, striding about with aide-de-campes and courier weight dragons following him like the train of a lady’s court gown. Colonel Fitzwilliam joined the train, patiently waited his turn to be called upon, and give his report succinctly and as wittily as possible. He was surprised that Wellington was not in a better mood. After all, they had won, his Mixed Model Division had turned the tide of the battle, and they had their first eagle to send back to London.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Wellington, abruptly. “Come dine with me this evening— bring your counterpart from the Aerial Corps. De Lacey, go take an invitation to Admiral Roland.”

At dinner Wellington revealed the source of his distemper: his Spanish allies.

“They refuse to provide the supplies they promise,” he groused, “and as soon as they fire a volley, they terrify themselves into breaking rank! If I hadn’t been able to rely on the Mixed Model Division to hold the center, so that I could focus on winning both the left and the right flank, the battle would have been lost. The Spanish did _nothing._ ”

One of the brigadiers protested, and Wellington asked impatiently, “D’you have any other explanation for them running from a column _they outnumbered?_ One on the _opposite side of the river_?”

“Sir, it is a great victory,” someone protested.

“Another victory like this,” said Wellington, “and we shall have to retreat to Lisbon and sail back to London.”

“The Spanish and Portuguese have all those troubles in Brazil and the Americas, and send their best people there,” offered an aide-de-campe.

“Why they should expend all their forces on maintaining their colonies while their country is about to fall to Bonaparte I truly cannot fathom,” said Wellington, icily. “Do they expect us to do all their damn work for them?”

“But what can be done, sir?” Colonel Lawford asked, a little puzzled.

“I have in mind,” said Wellington, “a building project. Just in case we will need to withdraw to Lisbon.” He began to describe a series of quite incredible defenses, against man and dragon, all well thought out, all fantastically planned.

“And how, pray, shall you build these, sir?” asked a disapproving brigadeer.

“Using the dragons, of course,” said Wellington, with a gleam of amusement.

“That’s our Atty,” crowed Admiral Roland, into the stunned silence that followed.

 


	5. In which there is a ball and a battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers of Sir Pterry's 'Monstrous Regiment' might recognize this particular plot point. ;)

The line of Torres Vedras were perhaps the largest and most ambitious defenses ever made in Europe: trenches with inclines too steep for men to climb or dragons to land upon, dammed streams ready to flood, valleys full of obstacles, bramble bushes and thorn bushes planted on any flat ground, and every part bristling with redoubts, lookout posts, and cannon. Wellington had also decided to carve caves greatly similar to those used by Buscapés, into the mountains. The few ridges that were not crowded with canon and pepper guns would be occupied by feral Buscapés, who would be lured there by a lack of natural predators and an abundance of dead pigs, sheep, and cows. When pepper guns could not achieve their anti-draconic effects, territorial ferals would. There were three defensive lines such as these, three valleys to be filled, three chances to stop the French before they reached Portugal.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, making a tour of the area on the back of Excidium, cast a considering eye over the natural landscape and felt extremely glad he wasn’t the commanding officer of the Anglo-Allied army. He would never have looked at these hills and begun to dream up the most impressive defensive works in modern history.

Some of the unharnessed English dragons, watched warily by the Spanish dragons, were already busy reshaping the slopes, uprooting trees and digging happily in the earth. While flying about with the head engineers on Excidium’s broad, scarred back to point out details and sketch out their ideas, Colonel Fitzwilliam could almost see the eventual grandeur of Wellington’s plans.

“As soon as Captain Bennet returns in three days, we shall get started on the real work,” declared Wellington. “We shall need both acid-spitters to carve the rock.”

Captain Bennet had been granted a month’s leave to return to England for her sister’s wedding, and also for Wollstonecraft to try out the series of floating way stations Perscitia had set up from Lisbon to London. She returned to Portugal overflowing with good cheer and stories of home. Her younger sister, Mary had been married with a very respectable dowry of three thousand pounds in the five percents; her eldest sister, Jane, almost engaged, with a promised dowry of four thousand in the fives (an amount that Colonel Fitzwilliam expected made up the bulk of Captain Bennet’s prize money) and, best of all, there was a small covert of Yellow Reapers, running a carting business, in her village, with its four and twenty families of good breeding and its many more families of decent or even indifferent breeding. Wollstonecraft had been welcomed into this company while Captain Bennet was in Hertfordshire, and even earned some extra money as a carter.

“It kept her in cows and my sisters in lace veils,” Captain Bennet reported, “and myself in new gowns. They aren't like uniforms; you cannot wear one to do everything you wish. One cannot wear the same gown for walking that one wears for riding, or the gown one wears for riding for visiting, or the gown one wears for visiting to dine, or the gown one wears to dine to dance. Uniforms strike me as much simpler. I have a couple versions of the one I wear every day, and the fancier one I wear to formal dinners and balls.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was hard put to imagine Captain Bennet in any kind of gown and petticoats, though he held each of the ensembles she mentioned before his mind’s eye, and concluded that the prevailing high-waisted silhouette would suit her admirably. “You sound to me to have been very active on your visit.”

“More than my mother liked, certainly, but not as active as I am used to being—and I have news you will never believe,” said Captain Bennet, eyes brimming with laughter.

“What, have they resurrected Nelson?”

“No,” she said, grinning, “but it is only a little less unlikely— I survived an entire ball!”

“Did you indeed?”

“Yes, and in a gown with a _train_ ! Captain Crawford picked it all out for me and sent my measurements to her London modiste. I felt _very_ fine in jonquil satin and white crepe, with silk gloves and pearl earrings. My mother’s maid even curled my hair.” She paused, smiling fading a little. “Though I am not sure I was up to the standards of the company.”

“I am sure you were, captain,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“I do not think I _disgraced_ myself,” said Captain Bennet, trying to play off her uncertainty as a joke. “I moved much better in my skirts than Captain Harcourt has ever managed, I watched my tongue, I kept myself in tolerable order, I remained decorously by one sister or another when I was not dancing... and as a result, I had partners for half the evening. Fancy that!”

“I wish I could have been there,” he said, without thinking about it.

She laughed. “You do not believe I could pretend to be a fine lady that long, do you? Well, I wish you had been at Netherfield. I could have used someone to whisper the steps of “The Shrewsbury Lasses,” for I did not carry that one off very well. Fortunately, my partner was eldest sister’s suitor, Mr. Bingley, and he was very kind about my gracelessness. The worst was “Mr. Beveridge's Maggot.” A friend of Mr. Bingley’s asked me to dance _that_ and was so grimly silent, so censorious, that I am convinced I was the worst partner he has ever had, He scarcely opened his mouth the entire quarter of an hour! I tried everything— the number of couples, the size of the room, music, books, the invasion of Britain, the Peninsular War, trade negotiations with China, draconic rights— but nothing seemed to interest him. And later on when I was sitting down Mr. Bingley tried to get him to dance with me a second time and he refused.”

“He refused?”

“Oh yes.” She drew herself upright and looked down her nose at him. In the poshest tones she could manage, Captain Bennet drawled, “I tolerated her for your sake _once_ , but she is not handsome enough to tempt me _twice_. You are dancing with the only Bennet girl worth looking at, or talking to, and I am in no humor to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked his amazement. “Good God, someone said that to you?”

She laughed, but he could tell she had been very cruelly mortified when she had heard it, and was still a little affected. “No, he said it to Mr. Bingley; I do not think he knew I heard him. It was rather lowering at the time, for I really did think I was rigged up fancily enough for a parade ground, but I consoled myself with the thought that he would not be standing in the corners of ballrooms, finding me plain and unpleasant, if it were not for me and Wollstonecraft. He would instead probably be dead in a field somewhere. I rather wished I had left off the pearls and worn the medal I got for my efforts at the Battle of Shoeburyness.”

“I would not give much weight to this gentleman’s opinions,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, privately wondering how anyone could be so rude, and in a place where one could be so easily overheard.

“I shall try my best.”

“I will dare to contradict him, and say that you were probably both handsome and charming, and he was everything disagreeable.”

“I do not know whether or not I was,” she said, with a more genuine smile, “but it shows an admirable partiality in you, to declare I was, without having seen me, or having been there. _That_ is the mark of a true friend!”

They both laughed, though it was tinged with consciousness on both their parts; Colonel Fitzwilliam because he realized he was remarkably partial to Captain Bennet, and Captain Bennet.... Colonel Fitzwilliam could not venture a guess, though it seemed to him likely that she did not believe him, or believed that, having seen her at her best, on a battlefield, he could not truly understand her at her worst, in a ballroom.

“Perhaps,” said she, “I will show you the dress sometime, and you can tell me if I was a dowd, or if I accidentally made myself look ridiculous... though you will have to make do with me holding it up; I have no occasion to put it on again.”

“We shall make one,” he said, promptly. “I have been billeted in a very decent house with a ballroom. As soon as the first line of Torres Vedras is complete, I shall hold a ball in honor of your formation.”

Captain Bennet looked at him with startled surprise. “That is very good of you, Colonel Fitzwilliam. But I....”

“Only our division, if you wish,” he said, quickly. “I assure you, no one will think you, or any of your officers ridiculous. Indeed, you may all show up in your dress uniforms if you prefer. Though I hope you will at least wave the gown out a window so I will not have to pass judgment on it without ever seeing it.”

This relieved her mind; Captain Bennet exclaimed, “Why then, I shall accept your offer with great pleasure.”

 

***

 

Though Captain Bennet had privately expressed to him her doubt that the officers of her formation would enjoy a ball, she was proven immediately and dramatically wrong. Every captain, lieutenant, and midwingman had been very long on campaign, without much amusement, and the news that their formation leader had secured them all invitations to a ball had been welcome indeed. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s officers and their wives were scarcely less excited.

As he had no wife, and all his female relations were in England, Colonel Fitzwilliam once again deputized the wife of his lieutenant-colonel, Mrs. Gowing, to be hostess. She was ecstatic at this, and threw herself into preparations with as much enthusiasm as the dragons had to their tasks. Within two weeks, the invitations had been sent, a Portuguese version of white soup had been made, the ballroom had been decorated, and an orchestra recruited.

“Really,” commented Captain Bennet, “she has gone almost faster than we can build! But this was a very keen inducement to get our part of the wall done. I have received a commendation from Admiral Roland on my dispatch in obeying orders.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was feeling really very cheerful himself. He had missed Captain Bennet and their lively conversations, and he was fond of dancing. He was looking forward to an evening filled with both, and greeted every guest with a mix of warmth and good breeding that could not help but set a very good tone for the rest of the ball.

The infantry arrived with greater dispatch than the aviators who, accustomed to the speed of air travel, had not realized how long it would take for a coach to bring them from their encampment into the city proper. Colonel Fitzwilliam stared out the open door, down the empty steps to the drive, making a list in his head of the various officers’ wives or daughters he ought to dance with, as a show of respect. This went all out of his head as soon as the aviators arrived and Captain Bennet sprang out of her carriage.

‘Bingley’s friend,’ he thought, ‘must be as nearsighted as the Duchess of Wellington. How could anyone look at Captain Bennet and think her _not handsome enough_ to dance with a second time?’

Captain Bennet, whom he generally thought rather pretty in her most battle-worn uniform, all over mud, with her hair pulled back in a queue, was bewitching in full ball dress. The white pearl drops at her ears, and the circlet at her throat brought out the deep gold of her very tanned complexion, and the short sleeves and column skirt of her gown emphasized the lean, defined musculature of her person. Colonel Fitzwilliam supposed this rendered her, in the eyes of Mr. Bingley's unnamed friend, unhandsome, but he was hard put to remember why this sort of complexion and figure was unfashionable. The jonquil satin underrobe clung to the curve of her breasts and hips, and stretched taut over the flat pane of her stomach in a way Colonel Fitzwilliam found distractingly attractive. He almost wished she had left off the diaphanous overrobe of white crepe, and the long white gloves. Captain Bennet needed no softening, in his opinion.    

She had curled her hair, or let someone else curl it, and it bounced as she walked up the steps into the house; it framed her face charmingly, and suited her as much as her gown. Best of all was her smile as she spotted him: warm and mischievous, starting first in her fine dark eyes, so full of intelligence, and then swiftly lighting over her face.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she exclaimed, letting go of her skirts and spreading wide her arms. “Here I am, as promised, in petticoats and ballgown. Wollstonecraft said I had not sufficient jewelry and that I ought to have an over robe of gold net studded with jewels to be _really_ fine, but I am inclined to doubt her taste when it comes to human fashion. What do you think?”

“I think Mr. Bingley’s friend is a fool,” he replied. He caught himself and tried to tease with less warmth. “You, not handsome enough to dance with a second time! If I had not been so well brought up, I would dance with you to the exclusion of everyone else in the room. Will you open the ball with me, captain?”

She grinned at him. “You _do_ know how to boost a woman’s confidence, don’t you, colonel? Yes, I thank you.”  

But when they began, Captain Bennet was inclined to brush off the compliment. She was the head of one of the two dragon formations on the Peninsula, reporting directly to Admiral Roland, and he was the commanding officer of the infantry assigned to her formation, reporting directly to Wellington; it was only right and proper he should open the ball with her. She expected him to dance the next with Captain Crawford, and then Lieutenant Lucas, before moving onto the wives of the officers, which accorded with his own list, but he was very tempted to ignore this and ask her to dance a second time. She moved as lightly on the floor as she did on dragonback; perhaps not with London elegance, but with a smooth self-command, and a well-trained energy that drew the eye. At first they talked of the steps of the dance, but, by degrees, Captain Bennet grew more relaxed, and they talked of the ball, and then the music, and then their conversation ranged as far as any of Wellington’s exploring officers.

Colonel Fitzwilliam began to feel glad he had met her on campaign, rather than in a ballroom or drawing room. She had caught his fancy very much, and if they had met in England, in a context that leant itself more to courtship than battlefield camaraderie, he might have been hinting at a marriage he could ill afford. Objections crowded in before he could even articulate the thought within the privacy of his own mind. Marriage was impossible for so many reasons—he had only his pay and his few thousand pounds in the five percents to live on; what little fortune he could expect would not be his until the death of his mother— and to offer anything less sat uneasily with him. And of course, they had to work together for as long as England fought in Spain; and Captain Bennet had surrounded herself with female aviators like Diana with her nymphs, had mentioned many times that she was happy she'd never had to think of marriage, and had given no indication his interest would be welcome—

She looked up at him, her nose scrunched, and said, “Have I something on my gown?”

“No, you look fine as five pence— I am merely contemplating whether or not it would be scandalous if I asked you to dance a second time.”

“Ah,” she said, her own expression easing. “I can answer that for you: I am a female dragon captain. Anything I do is scandalous. But I appreciate your concern. I am always a little afraid my career will injure my sisters. With the entail and all, their situation is rather precarious; my aunt Gardiner— the one married to my uncle, not the one who gave me her dragon— has told me that without my supplementing their fifty pounds per annum, my sisters have little more than their charms, and their respectability to recommend them. Anyone finding out about my career would take away the latter very quickly.”

“It strikes me,” he said, “that to be in your position is an impossible balancing act. Your sisters’ dowries depend upon your career in the Aerial Corps, but their reputations depend on it's never being found out. The government insists you cannot inherit your father's estate, and society insists you live upon it, but then the government turns around insists you must inherit your aunt’s dragon, and society insists you cannot live upon its covert.”

“It is a most intriguing paradox,” said she, smiling. “But I have a greater degree of liberty than most women. I trade my security for it, but if I am careful, I may yet ensure my sisters are secure. I would not have it reversed.”

He knew it would only torment himself to ask, but he did anyhow: “Have you any thought of marrying?”

Captain Bennet looked at him as if he had suggested she grow a second head. Then she decided he had been joking and said, “Ha! Most amusing. I can just imagine it now. Wollstonecraft will lead me to the altar, and no woman in England will again wish for white satin and lace veils. It will all be gold epaulettes and swords from here on out.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, confused, “but Admiral Roland has mentioned her daughter, and you and Captain Crawford complain about Captain Harcourt’s husband, Captain Riley—”

“Oh, I see,” said Captain Bennet, expression clearing. “Yes! We could not help but talk it over. It was an odd case. Captain Riley is in the Navy, and insisted on their marrying, for his estate was entailed. Crawford and I have been in society more than the others, so we tend to defend Captain Harcourt's acquiescence. And it turned out to be rather a good thing for Catherine, as she had the misfortune to have a son, who could not become Lily’s captain. Though Admiral Roland _has_ said it is a shame Catherine may not take on someone a little more reasonable, since marriage means she has sworn to stay only with Captain Riley— ” She abruptly cut herself off and blushed. “Oh Good God, how I rattle on! I beg you will forget what I said.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, entirely at sea, said, “Er—”

The dance ended; Captain Bennet made up a hasty excuse and fled.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was considerably bewildered, and asked Captain Crawford for the next dance, in the hopes of clarifying this very odd reaction. He asked about it in what he thought were sufficiently guarded terms, but Captain Crawford burst out laughing.

“Dear sir,” said Captain Crawford, with a mocking smile, “we aviatrixes do not marry.”

“But... uh—”

“Bastardry does not really matter in our profession,” she continued on. “The maternal line is the only important one. And, in a way, it is easier. If the father is unknown, he cannot take our children from us and insist they cannot be dragon captains. He cannot demand we stay at home when we are needed abroad, or try to separate us from our dragons, or to make us disobey orders by insisting our vows to him are of primary importance, rather than our vows to king and country. Even before they were married, Captain Riley tried to insist Captain Harcourt leave the service!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know how to react to this. All he had assumed about the structure of his society, and the place of women in it, and how they came to be in that place, was beginning to seem less like an old manor house— a little outdated, but built upon good lines, with a solid foundation— and more like a house of cards upon a rickety end table. He managed to say, confusedly, “He insisted she leave... when, during the dragon plague?”

“Yes, when there were only four or five living Longwings,” said Captain Crawford. “I am told Captain Gardiner proposed assassinating the chap, but Captain Harcourt is still, somehow, fond of Captain Riley, and insisted on his being left alone. Thank God, Harcourt ignored Riley’s demands without any consequence. The aviators were all a little afraid he would insist, and take her to court or something, but the French invaded before that occurred. He could say nothing then.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried feebly to protest this with, “Not all husbands are such tyrants, I hope.”

“I suppose not,” said Captain Crawford, not very convinced, “but I cannot think of very many Englishmen who would be content to come second to a dragon.”

“Captain Harville is happily married,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, nodding further down the set.

“English _man_ not Englishwoman,” said Captain Crawford. “Women are trained not to think of themselves as the primary object of interest, even in their own lives. They can be resigned to coming second to anything. And, any road, Mrs. Harville has been in the service, in her own way, all her life. Her father was the dragon surgeon for Conterrenis, before the plague took him. The dragon, not the doctor.”

“Ah,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, awkwardly.

“I see I have shocked you.”

“You have,” he admitted, “but I shall get over it, I daresay.”

“Do not worry,” said Captain Crawford, patting his arm as they passed each other in the dance, “we are all of us too necessary at the moment to be spared for breeding. You will not have to worry about so unpalatable a reality.”

“That is... fortunate,” managed Colonel Fitzwilliam. He blushed when he saw Captain Bennet next; but determinedly pretended he knew absolutely nothing about the marital habits (or lack thereof) of female aviators. Captain Bennet was very relieved to follow his example. By dint of hurrying into talk of maneuvers, they got over their awkwardness, and danced the supper set together without further embarrassment or danger.

 

***

 

Once the heavy lifting had been completed, Wellington turned the construction of his lines over to human engineers, rather than dragons. A few unharnessed light and middleweights, none larger than Wollstonecraft, remained to assist with any last earthworks, but formation flyers were too valuable to be left with building projects. They had the less strenuous, but more logistically complicated task of supporting the regiments and civilians fleeing from Spain to Portugal. Part of Wellington’s plan to gain time to finish his lines was the continuing, selective demolition of certain roads and bridges. This slowed the advance of the French, and by restricting the routes the French could take, allowed Wellington to have a more accurate understanding of the enemy’s position. But it also meant that without draconic transport, certain towns or companies of Anglo-Allied forces were completely stranded.

It was difficult to evacuate the troops, not all of whom had been to war before, and all of whom, in varying degrees, associated soldiers on dragonback with the French. The enlisted men often refused to get into harness. It astonished Colonel Fitzwilliam to hear his own men jeering at these other regiments when this happened. Were these really the men that had scattered, screaming, when Attia landed in the middle of their infantry square, when they had first arrived in Spain? But the taunting worked on the enlisted men, if not particularly well or efficiently, and, seeing Colonel Fitzwilliam politely at his ease amongst dragons and aviators, facing draconic teeth and talons with sang-froid and offering a gentlemanly hand to the officers’ wives, went a long way to getting the officers aboard. Where the taunting of their fellow enlisted men did not work, the encouragement and example of their officers (or, as Captain Crawford saw it, the threat of the lash) tended to motivate even the most recalcitrant troops to get on Antiope’s broad back.

The villages required gentler, slower handling. Colonel Fitzwilliam often found himself sitting on a rickety stool before the pitiful fires of the principal families of some wretched town or other, sipping indifferent wine and saying soothing things in his accented Spanish. Of course the British would not flee across the Channel... again... of course they understood what sacrifices they were demanding from their allies, of course they had plans to help. The infantry would help pack and board up the town; the Aerial Corps would help transport the villagers and their possessions. Dragons were incredibly strong, and these dragons were safe— very safe indeed.

Gherni was his usual companion in this; in the larger homes he would whistle to her and she would trot in and obligingly lay before the fire with her head across his lap, like a horse-sized dog, and let herself be stroked, and let any children present climb upon her back. Colonel Fitzwilliam, aping his Uncle Darcy’s manner on public days, would then listen sympathetically to all complaints, never letting his look of genial tolerance and kindly understanding waver, and only think all the sarcastic things he wanted badly to say. By the end of this the village headman was tolerably resigned, and, any road Captains Bennet and Crawford would be on whatever passed for the green, being charming with their dragons. If such gigantic creatures bent their will to ladies— oddly dressed ladies, to be sure, but obviously _ladies_ none-the-less— then they could not be so very dangerous. Captains Wentworth and Harville would then arrive with the Yellow Reapers and the process of loading and evacuation would begin.

It would end, of course, with the infantry troops smashing ovens, spoiling wells, and setting fire to any foodstuff that could not be transported. What could not be packed and carried, Wellington had ordered, ought to be destroyed. The French troops lived off the countryside, as Napoleon sent them no supplies. Therefore, concluded Wellington, there would be nothing to live on in the countryside. It had worked in England, after all. 

Though this would be effective, if it was implemented, it was very hard to convince peasants not only to abandon their land— often all they possessed—but to also burn what they could not carry. The worst part of this particular task, however, was the question of army supply.

This was not an unknown question. Colonel Fitzwilliam had had enormous difficulty with it during the French invasion of England. It plagued every theatre of war, and men always tried to answer it. If those presenting one with a solution were in uniform, they tended to call themselves quartermasters. If not, they were opportunists. There was not a strict delineation between the two; indeed, it was more of smudged line one had to squint fixedly at to really even see. 

Though Colonel Fitzwilliam always considered the Mess at Pemberley to be his worse run-in with opportunists trying to profit off of the army and their fellow citizens, the gang of Portuguese smugglers trying to sell a windmill full of flour to the approaching French army was a very close second. These Portuguese “merchants” unconvincingly protested that they had orders from some British major or other to bring the flour here instead of to the British encampment at Bussaco, or the British home base of Lisbon.

“It would be our very great honor to assist you gentlemen,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, in his very accented Portuguese. “We have a heavy-weight and three middle-weights, and men enough to move all the flour.”

“Oh no it is too much trouble,” the head opportunist protested.

“Not at all!” Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed, trying to sound as jolly and plummy as a figgy pudding. “Our duty, what? Always happy to help an ally. Be a pleasure, sir, a very great pleasure.”

The redcoats were habituated enough to the quick movement of comestibles to have loaded up Attia before the merchants knew what was happening; and were halfway through loading up Antiope before the merchants thought to protest.

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded at Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, who had memorized a polite but extremely long speech in Portuguese, that relied on extensive praises of the Portuguese royal family. This usually subdued all but the most violent. Colonel Fitzwilliam left him to do his work and supervise the loading on of the horses to the flying stables, and then of the majority of his companies on Antiope.

“I shall have to fill up to capacity with air,” grumbled Antiope.

“Poor darling,” said Captain Crawford, petting the top of one enormous talon. “You have to be the largest dragon in Spain. How terrible for you.”

Antiope grumbled, but somehow inflated herself, her chest and sides expanding, and sent her harness men scampering about adjusting buckles and straps.

“Captain Harville, pray accompany Captain Crawford,” said Captain Bennet. “Captain Wentworth, if you will wait until Wollstonecraft is loaded before going aloft?”

“Benwick and the ferals as your guard?” Captain Wentworth asked.

“I think this close to Bussaco that should be sufficient.”

Captain Wentworth eyed the opportunists. “I see that the only way we will get this flour behind the lines is if we get it there before our.. friends... can think to fight back... but I don't quite like leaving you behind, Bennet. These Portuguese traders cut up damn stiff about having to obey Lieutenant Fairfax, when I sent her in to see what was going on.”

“Yes,” said Captain Bennet, with a sigh. “Groundlings of any nation have the most aggravating hang-ups about female officers. At least I have Colonel Fitzwilliam to be aristocratic while repeating whatever it is I say. They respect the poshness of his tone if they respect nothing else.”

“I should hope I and the light company would be sufficient protection against ten Portuguese brawlers,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, as Captain Bennet went over to give orders to Commander Benwick.

“I'm hardly worried about that,” said Captain Wentworth, dryly. “By God man, you've lost enough fencing bouts to Bennet to know how well she holds her own in a close-quarters fight! I only worry about the lack of respect. They'll make things difficult just because Bennet happens to be a woman.”

Wentworth was right about this; as soon as the last sack of flour had been loaded on Wollstonecraft, and the midwingmen were trying to pull up the pad that separated the cargo from the place in the belly netting where ground crew and the four midwingmen called ‘bellmen,’ spent their flight, the merchants began to very vigorously protest.

Colonel Fitzwilliam took off his gloves and took out his memorandum book, and wrote out a receipt for their flour with a cheerful, “Here’s a note, if anyone gives you trouble when you reach Lisbon. The quartermaster general will pay you once you are there.”

“I would like payment now,” said the head smuggler. “I do not trust you English; you will be at sea as soon as you stop having victories. The English— they like their victories. They do not like battles!”

“At least we have victories,” said one of the aviators, provoking a sharp and immediate reprimand from Lieutenant Lucas. But the Portuguese were incensed by that, and insulted the infantry troops carrying away the last of the flour. One of the redcoats (probably the worse for illicit drink, or so Colonel Fitzwilliam hoped), dropped his sack of flour to shout, in very bad Portuguese, that if the Portuguese and Spanish had any honor they would have given General Wellington the food they had promised.

Colonel Fitzwilliam closed his eyes. ‘That was all that was wanting,’ he thought. ‘Coming to blows over some damned flour.’ By the time he opened his eyes again, the Portuguese had launched themselves at the men of the light company, and what aviators were still on the ground.

“I beg your pardon,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I assure you the flour will be yours as soon as you reach Lisbon—”

“ _Los anglais par la mar!_ ” their leader snarled, which was both a condemnation of the British threat to sail back to England and the hearty wish that the English would do so already, and threw himself bodily into the fray. A burly sergeant knocked this man over before he could reach Colonel Fitzwilliam, causing the Portuguese second-in-command to launch himself at Captain Bennet.

Quick as thought, Captain Bennet pulled her sword, jabbing her assailant in the solar plexus with the hilt, before swinging it up and bringing the hilt down upon the head of the Portuguese man with a pistol behind Colonel Fitzwilliam. The pistol in the smuggler’s hand fell to the ground, the ball rolling out and gunpowder spilling on the grass.

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a little miffed— he was a colonel, and therefore should be past the stage of fighting where angry, untrained boors came rushing at him— but drew his own sword as the dispute over the flour became a damned melee.

Into this came the French, who had paid a great deal for the promised flour and were hungry enough to risk their lives for it. Lightweights flung themselves at the mill, causing the ferals to scatter, squawking indignantly, before they rose up to fight back, and the company’s heavyweight, a Flamme-de-gloire, seeing an undefended Longwing, put on a burst of speed and swooped down.

“Wollstonecraft!” Captain Bennet cried, as the Longwing reared up on her back legs and tried to rake the exposed belly of the French dragon with her claws. Her claws snagged in the belly netting and Wollstonecraft was pulled off her feet and into the air. A couple of aviators tumbled off; the rest hastily hooked themselves on as Wollstonecraft was pulled into the air, sans captain.

“Clever rogues,” muttered Captain Bennet, kneeing a new assailant in the groin. “Deliberately separating me from my dragon! This was their plan if they got caught, I think— I shouldn’t wonder if it was.”

This explained, too, the timing of the Portuguese resistance. Colonel Fitzwilliam knocked the sword out of his opponent’s hand and, as a couple of furious privates tied up the Portuguese smuggler and tossed him into a group with the others, tried to take stock of their opposition. Close columns of French infantry were marching up the hill, to continual, hypnotizing drumbeats interspersed with cries of “Vive l'Empereur!” There weren't enough redcoats to form line; there were hardly two companies left.

Colonel Fitzwilliam forgot himself enough to curse. He began shouting at the men remaining to rally square and sharply now, when a French courier weight swooped down and grabbed him by the epaulettes. He was jerked abruptly into the air, down the hill towards the approaching French column, but he still had his sword out; with more instinct than thought, he gutted the dragon’s soft underbelly. It twisted away and dropped him with a horrible cry. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face broke his fall, and yet he still landed hard enough to have the wind knocked out of him and his sword drop from his hand.

Someone called his name; by the time he could draw breath again, Captain Bennet was standing over him, firing at oncoming _voltigeurs_ and shouting for her own crew. He tried to blink the blood and dirt from his eyes—his face hurt too much to making wiping his eyes seem feasible; one of his eyes had crusted shut, but the other worked, and out of it he saw that was a French soldier vaulting over a falling redcoat, charging up towards Captain Bennet’s back, bayonet raised. ‘No rest for the weary,’ he thought, crawling forward on his forearms towards his sword. The man with the bayonet was not watching where he was going, nor did he notice the blade that suddenly appeared before him. Colonel Fitzwilliam turned his face away, to avoid being further splattered with blood, as the French soldier impaled himself.

An ensign ran up and turned away to be sick; his cadre of men pulled the body away and helped Colonel Fitzwilliam sit up. One immediately offered his canteen of water and the other held Colonel Fitzwilliam still, as they washed off his face. This stung horrifically, but sight returned. And he saw the soldier’s best ally— an illicit and un-regulation brandy bottle— raised towards him. He drank gratefully, coughing at the burn against his dry throat. Brandy spilled over his split lip, and when he instinctively turned his head away at the sting of this, the private holding the bottle accidentally spilled brandy over the abraded side of his face.

He cursed loudly and creatively.

There was a loose polygon of redcoats and green coats by the time he was finished, and his aide-de-campe, and one of the sergeants assigned to guarding the regimental colors had wiped away the brandy and pressed handkerchiefs to his face. Colonel Fitzwilliam bellowed hoarsely, “How many sides does a square have, gentlemen?”

The ensign with the colors managed a terrified, “Four, sir!”

“Why then does my infantry square have _six and a half sides_?”

The sergeants began dragging men into place; Captain Bennet, seeing that Colonel Fitzwilliam was attended by his men, and alive and well enough to count, ran towards the confused clumps of green jackets, and began organizing them into lines. Colonel Fitzwilliam took a moment to thank the privates who had helped him; and turned them towards an aide-de-campe, to have their names for his eventual dispatch about the action. He dug his sword into the earth, leaning on it until he caught his breath, and could process the chaos about him into something that could be worked with or defended against. Masses of blue-clad soldiers, the French advance guard, were running at them like the first crest of a wave. Captain Wyndham bellowed out orders to load, damn you, load!

Captain Bennet, finished with her troops, looked over her shoulder. Her left eye was swelling but she was otherwise uninjured. “All right there, Colonel?”

“Been better,” he replied, holding his handkerchief to his split lower lip. “My aide said it's a full French regiment, and aerial support of ten courier weights, a middleweight, and two heavyweights. The French light company is engaged with us now and the rest of the regiment is as you see—” looking down the hill, feeling pained “—and their fire-breather already engaged with Wollstonecraft.”

“We need to get to higher ground,” she replied. “Captains Crawford, Harville, and Wentworth already left with most of your regiment, and the flour; Benwick has sent a midwingman after them on Winge.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam took out his telescope and looked to see where the ferals were playing what seemed to be a game of tag with the courier weights, and Wollstonecraft tearing viciously at the French Flamme- de-Gloire and winging out of the way of the jets of fire this provoked.

“Lieutenant Lucas knows her trade,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, impressed.

“I really think there's none to match Charlotte at defensive maneuvers,” Captain Bennet said, as pleased as if he had complimented her. “To the windmill, perhaps?”

“Rally square!” he called out, turning back to his men. “Edge up the hill to the windmill! Front line, bayonets; men on the inner lines— fire as needed. The important thing is to keep moving!”

This was a desperate maneuver, an infantry company's scrabbling claim to life, marching in a square to higher ground. There were fifty or so soldiers, and half as many confused aviators; progress was slow. Colonel Fitzwilliam wondered if they should form line instead, or could break entirely to run, but the _voltigeurs_ were fast and had them surrounded on all sides already. The rest of the French regiment marched steadily towards the ragged red square, such an overwhelming mass of men that even Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was used to French tactics and knew not to be afraid at superior number of men since they were generally untrained, felt a bubble of panic rising in his chest. They had to hold their square.

They reached the door to the windmill just as the French drummers began to beat double time.

“Squadron by squadron into the mill!” he shouted, but the French troops were rushing at them, and only the line of men closest to the door had entered; the aviators and three lines of troops were still outside— he shoved the ensign with the colors through the door and, turning his back to the door, raised his sword.

“Most ancient cultures,” said Captain Bennet, over the shouts of the sergeants to form line, “say that the best death is in battle.”

“I wish it had been a battle over more than flour,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But it was an honor to serve with you, Captain Bennet.”

She managed a smile. “The honor was mine, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

There was so much more he wished to say, but there wasn't time. He turned his attention to the coming onslaught and cried, “Fire at will!”

The front line of redcoats fired; this close, they mostly hit their targets, but there were too many French troops to do more than temporarily slow the advance. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet stood shoulder to shoulder, bloodied swords raised; then suddenly some of the French troops looked up and pointed and a shadow fell over them all.

“HMD Laconia, reporting for duty!” Captain Wentworth called, through his speaking trumpet, as the French wave crested and fell upon the redcoats like the ocean breaking upon a rocky outcropping. The redcoats in Laconia’s belly netting and the riflemen on her back fired into the mass of blue coats; the British infantry let out a ragged cheer, through mouths dried from tearing open cartridges with their teeth. Laconia made ready to land without much caring if there were troops beneath her. The French beat a very hasty retreat back down the hill.

“Wentworth, by God!” Captain Bennet called up happily, while almost absent-mindedly beating off a French soldier who had broken through the line of redcoats before them. “You took long enough!”

“Laconia likes to make a dramatic entrance,” he replied airily, as Laconia swiped aside the front of the column like a cat pawing at a crumpled paper ball. “Who am I to deny her?”

“All infantry into the mill,” called Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Follow your sergeants! Stay orderly!” The number of French soldiers trapped between the mill and Laconia were not great, and seemed more inclined to flee than fight; the British forces were able to retreat into the mill with all due dispatch. Colonel Fitzwilliam was very pleased to find that Captain Wyndham had ordered some men on the roof as snipers, and pleased even more to realize all the men selected had been charged as poachers before being sent to the army.

“We may actually survive this,” he said, to no one in particular.

“Dragons attacking, sir!” came the cry.

Captain Bennet, who was crouched by an injured aviator, trying, with some other officers, to turn a harness strap into a tourniquet, called up, “What kind?”

“Small ones!” was the unhelpful answer.

A ten-year-old cadet in a green coat was sent up to the roof, and called back, in a high, piping treble, “A Pascal’s Blue and five Poux-de-ciel, captain, breaking away from their engagement with the ferals to attack Laconia!”

“Can you provide us with some ground fire, colonel?” Captain Bennet asked, pulling tight the strap.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been taking advantage of the momentary lull to hold his handkerchief to his lower lip and pulled it away with a grimace. His handkerchief was coated in blood. “I can try, but we’ve only muskets, no rifles, or any other artillery. We won't be able to reach very far.”

Captain Bennet released her grip on the strap and wiped the palms of her hands on the front of her coat. “Damn. Well, at least it will draw attention to the attack from behind.”

That was all his light company accomplished, but this was enough for Laconia. She roared her defiance to the French dragons and, plucking one of the blades off of the windmill, swung it like a cricket bat, knocking the Pascal’s Blue from the air. The ferals zoomed in to try and pick off the other courier-weights, the other French courier-weights hot on their tails.

“How’s Wollstonecraft?” asked Captain Bennet, anxiously.

“Going for the wings, captain!” called down the cadet. “Acid to the membranes.”

There was a sudden, terrible roar that rattled the windows and shook dust and bits of roof tile to the floor.

“That’s my girl,” murmured Captain Bennet, beaming. Or rather, as much as she could with one eye. Her left had swollen to a remarkable degree.  

Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling as if he was very little more than a bruised sack of blood ineptly help up over bone, made it to one of the windows and propped his telescope on the sill. The Flamme-de-Gloire was spiraling madly, one of her wings full of steaming holes from the acid attack, the crew in her belly netting jumping out with the parachutes Wellington wanted so badly to acquire. (The Royal Corps of Engineers had been doing its best, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had witnessed a truly distressing number of trials where eggs met their doom when the test parachutes did not have sufficient wind resistance.) Wollstonecraft swept over the French column hurling acid and invective in equal measure. The French troops scattered, and the couriers abruptly pulled back and back to the troops.

In a maneuver much more polished than his own regiment’s attempts at it, the French courier-weight dragons began scooping up soldiers and taking them to a waiting Papillon Noir.

“Time to evacuate ourselves, I think,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, after reporting on this. Captain Bennet nodded and called up at an ensign to tie their coat to a musket in a rudimentary signal flag. Wollstonecraft drove the French down to the base of the hill, and then winged over to them, calling out anxiously, “Where is my captain?”

Captain Bennet ran to the door before realizing she would make herself a target thereby and contented herself with shouting at one of her cadets to send up a flare.

The ground shook with the force of Wollstonecraft’s hasty landing; Colonel Fitzwilliam sent out a cadre of redcoats before Captain Bennet ran out, but even then, they were only seconds before her.

“ _Lizzy_!” roared Wollstonecraft, delirious with joy.

“Oh dearest!” Captain Bennet exclaimed.

“The love between woman and dragon is a sacred thing,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam's aide, who had decided, at that moment, to try and pick the powder residue out of his mouth with an ivory toothpick. It was a disgusting sight. Colonel Fitzwilliam admitted to the unworthy wish to take Lieutenant Dodd’s toothpick case and throw it at Wollstonecraft’s head for a bit of impromptu acid-spitting practice.

“Get the men organized for a retreat and immediate flight,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, as his officers left their posts and congregated about him. “I have had enough of windmills; I think Don Quixote was quite ahead of his time, in attacking them as he did. Sensible fellow.”

His officers politely laughed.

When Colonel Fitzwilliam hobbled out, just before the ensign lifting the colors high, Captain Bennet had her arms thrown about her dragon’s nose, and Wollstonecraft was emitting a faint rumbling sound that in a smaller creature Colonel Fitzwilliam would characterize as a purr.

Lieutenant Lucas, looking quite pleased with herself, peered over the side of the dragon and said, “Give you a hand, colonel?”

“I thank you, yes.”

He was very grateful to be given a spot in the tent, and to have the dragon surgeon look at his face for most of the flight back to the main encampment of British, Spanish, and Portuguese forces. The damage to his face and person, he was assured, was only skin-deep, and though no doubt painful, would not significantly impair him after the initial period of recovery. It did not make him feel much more human, but it did make him feel significantly more cheerful when he strolled out of the tent to his usual position at Captain Bennet’s side, at the base of Wollstonecraft’s neck.

She offered him a grin before pointing out the rest of the troops. “Fine turn out for us, isn’t it?”

The Anglo-Allied Army had spread in thick lines over the reverse slope and the ridge of Bussaco, firing in an almost desultory fashion on the French trying to run up the hill. At the bottom the French engineers and unharnessed middleweights were building earthworks like oddly sized moles. Marshal Messina knew Wellington, a defensive rather than offensive general, would not give up the high ground, but with earthworks from below and attacks from above, the fight to keep the high ground would be vicious. Admiral Roland’s own formation flew about in easy wedge formations, zooming in to spit acid upon the earthworks, before winging out of sight, almost in a game of aerial tag with some exhausted French dragons, more intent on protecting their earthworks than mounting an offensive. Far off, closer to the nearest city, Coimbra, the English firebreather, Iskierka, was tormenting the only active French heavyweight, a Chanson-de-Guerre who was wasting its breath by swearing viciously.

Captain Wentworth signaled that two French regiments were marching up a hill on the left flank of the British forces.

“Midshipman Webb,” Captain Bennet, called over her shoulder. “Hop on a feral and go get the full report from Captain Wentworth; then take it to Admiral Roland. I’ll signal your coming.” This was speedily accomplished. Colonel Fitzwilliam turned his telescope from side to side, trying to peer through the lingering mist and powder smoke to see what regiments were currently engaged in battle up on the ridge. The smoke parted long enough for him to see one of Wellington’s numerous mobile semaphore towers, dotting the ridge in between the regiments, raise up a string of colored flags.

He was not adept yet at reading the flags; he could recognize the one referring to his division, and knew the ones signaling if a message was from General Wellington or Admiral Roland, but that was about it. He spotted both Wellington and Roland’s flags, before the string was lowered, and then a new set was pulled up. He spotted Wellington’s flag and then his division’s. “Captain Bennet— I think there is a message for us.”

Captain Bennet raised a telescope to her good eye and said, “Signalman, confirm that the message is from Wellington to us?”

“Aye aye, Captain,” cried Midwingman Harrington. She raised her own telescope and said, “Yes captain, from Wellington, that’s his flag signal on top— asking if Colonel Fitzwilliam is aboard!” She added a last “captain,” as almost an afterthought.

“Signal back that he is.”

Midwingman Harrington did so and then said, “Reply from Wellington again, captain: Mixed Model Division is to cover the retreat.”

“Retreat?”

“A retreat to Coimbra,” she replied, squinting through the telescope.

Colonel Fitzwilliam called for Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, who had moved from Laconia to Wollstonecraft at the mill, upon seeing how injured Colonel Fitzwilliam had become. Upon hearing the message, he said, “Well, I shouldn’t doubt it, sir; General Wellington was only offering battle here, so as to gain time to have the lines fully completed. He won’t risk his troops in an untenable position.”

“I was not doubting it, Hal,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, his good mood evaporating. “I am asking how you think Wellington believes we can cover the retreat of the Anglo-Allied forces with the light company exhausted, the center right company half out of commission, the grenadiers God knows where, four companies theoretically on a Regal Copper no one can locate, and the other companies hanging off the sides of a Longwing, a Yellow Reaper, and a handful of ferals!”

Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing said, “We, ah... we are somewhat short on ammunition as well, sir. Very few cartridges, no powder—”

“What do we have?”

“Several tons of flour.”

“Oh yes,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, beginning to feel really irritated. “That is phenomenally useful at this juncture. The men can ram flour down their barrels and hope to shoot bread rolls at the enemy.”

“Flour does explode sometimes, sir,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, in injured tones. “A mill of Kate's father’s exploded once. If there’s too much of the stuff in the air, in an enclosed space, and someone’s lit a candle, then pow!” He tried to indicate an explosion by waving his arms around.

“Should I signal the question, sir?” Midwingman Harrington asked, doubtfully.

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I know the answer I shall get: ‘I do not care how, just do it.’ Ask Wellington how long he needs?”

Midwingman Harrington did so and the response came: ‘until nightfall.’

“That’s only three or four hours, Fitz,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, soothingly. “And look!”

Admiral Roland’s formation turned neatly in the air and began attacking the French troops marching up the path.

“That makes things easier,” continued on Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing. “And the men are marching already.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed. “Captain Bennet, I would be much obliged if you would land on the ridge, so my few companies may disembark. We will... I don’t know, throw handfuls of flour at the enemy and hope the sparks from their guns will cause enough of an explosion to delay them.”

When they had landed, and were watching the regiments load wounded, women, and children into wagons, and then break neatly from line into marching column, Colonel Fitzwilliam took a moment to wearily survey all the building works and rudimentary siege towers the French had built at the base of the ridge. They were crude, unfinished things, like flour mill they had just left, after the dragons had been at it—

He put a gloved hand to his bloodied chin. “Lieutenant Lucas?” She appeared quietly at his side. “How many pounds of flour are Wollstonecraft and Laconia carrying?”

Lieutenant Lucas gave her best guess, looking a little puzzled.

Colonel Fitzwilliam called up, “Captain Bennet!”

She peered over Wollstonecraft’s side. “Yes, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

He pointed at one of the open towers.

“They won’t be able to get pepper canons up top for hours yet, if that is what’s worrying you,” said Captain Bennet.

“Oh no, I am more concerned with the fact that it is a tall enclosed space,” he said, with considerable satisfaction. “Much like a flour mill, would you not say, Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing?”

Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing looked terrifically excited. He was a very competent soldier for day-to-day maneuverings, but no one would have called him imaginative, or anything like a skilled tactician. He was thrilled to have inspired any kind of idea.

“Could you drop both loads of flour from Wollstonecraft and Laconia’s belly nettings into that tower?”

“Certainly,” said Captain Bennet.

“Then we just need to spark it somehow.... I suppose there is Iskierka, but that would endanger her crew, and I don’t know if Admiral Roland would allow her on so delicate a maneuver.”

Captain Bennet contemplated this and then asked, “What about a flare gun?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Captain Wyndham and asked for the best shot in the company. Private McGrath ambled over and touched his hand to the brim of his shako.

“Private,” asked Colonel Ftizwilliam, “if we were to drop two belly nettings full of flour above the French army, about a hundred feet above them, into that little tower they’ve built there—” pointing at it, at the very base of the slope “—would you be able to stand here on this ridge and hit the tower with a flare gun?”

Private McGrath walked to the edge of the ridge and considered the distance, asked to see a flare gun, studied it, and said, “A-yup, sir.”

“We’ll make sure you’re above cloud cover before we fire,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said to Captain Bennet. “I have no idea how large an explosion this might be.”

“Excellent,” said Captain Bennet, bouncing on the balls of her feet and clasping her hands together delightedly. Despite the torn, bloody uniform, the black eye, and a shallow but long, bleeding cut down her left forearm, she looked very much like a debutante on the eve of a ball, in her attitude of ill-concealed eagerness, and the animation of her countenance. “I love a clever maneuver. Cadet Otway, run to Captain Wentworth and tell him I need him. Lieutenant Lucas, select the quickest cadets with the sharpest knives. Midwingman Harrington— take a message to the signal tower.”

As soon as they got back a ‘Clever!’ from Admiral Roland and a precise time for this manouever from Wellington, they set to their work. Colonel Fitzwilliam was not of great assistance. There were more places that hurt than didn’t, whenever he talked, his lip split again, and a number of colonels from different regiments refused to listen to him.

Wollstonecraft, however, managed to carry the day.

Though she did not, in general, like to speak while focused on a task, there were ways of conveying meaning without words. The sight of a large reptilian face, with its giant serrated teeth and tusk-like bone-spurs, listening attentively to the conversation and obediently moving when Colonel Fitzwilliam politely asked it to, tended to make the rest of the colonels think, ‘perhaps I should obey Colonel Fitzwilliam too’ and agree to move their troops to the opposite side of the ridge from the French.

As soon as all the wounded had been loaded up and put on carts, Captains Bennet and Wentworth went aloft. They flew back and forth, Wollstonecraft occasionally spitting acid down at some earthwork or other, careful not to be seen eroding more works than the top of their chosen tower, as the cadets sawed through the bags of flour. The occasional rifle shot or canonful of grapeshot rather helped the work of the cadets than hindered it. A fine white haze filled the air by the time Wollstonecraft and Laconia abruptly flew upwards and into the clouds, followed by Admiral Roland’s formation.

Their bellynettings and cargo tumbled to earth, spraying thick trails of flour into air already white with the fine grains. The starving French let up a great cheer; to relieve the dragons of the flour had always been their object. It seemed they were convinced they had won the sortie.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, laying flat on his stomach on the ridge and squinting at the ramshackle tower of earth and timber, trying to avoid having to touch his telescope to his still smarting face, ordered, “Private McGrath, fire at will.”

Almost lazily, Private McGrath sighted along the barrel of the flaregun, and pulled the trigger.

The air suddenly transmuted itself into flame.

Then the flare hit the tower.

The tower exploded.

Colonel Fitzwilliam put his arms over his head as the heat streamed above him. He smelled toast and was abruptly rather hungry. By the time he had registered this, the valley was on fire, the tower and all other earthworks shattered, and the French themselves in utter confusion.

“Midwingman Webb,” said he, raising his head, “pray signal to Wellington, ‘Will this do?’ McGrath?”

“A-yup, sir?”

“From now on, you're a corporal. Congratulations.”

“Thank ‘ee, sir,” said Corporal McGrath, well pleased.

Wellington was scarcely less pleased.

Indeed, when they all arrived in Combria, Wellington was in a beamingly good mood, gave Colonel Fitzwilliam the uncreative nickname of ‘Fitz,’ shook everyone’s hand, disgusting, sweaty, dirty, and bloody as they were, and declared that once news of their victory got to London, they would be hailed as heroes, “—though perhaps instead of throwing laurels, the people will throw _flours_ at your feet, eh?”

“Ha ha,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said politely.

“We look forward to being the toast of London, sir,” replied Captain Bennet, who was always quick with a riposte.

“Glad to see you share my _rye_ humor, Captain Bennet,” said Wellington, to the pained looks of his aide-de-campes.

Colonel Fitzwilliam recalled that Wellington had two young sons. There was something about fatherhood that made men want to tell unfunny jokes at any given opportunity. Colonel Fitzwilliam had seen it at work in his own elder brother.

Admiral Roland laughed and stretched, saying, “Captain Bennet, you are more right than you know. We are sending you to do the pretty to the lords in London. Your division gave us a very neat victory, which we are going to ruthlessly exploit. Our Atty’s lines will keep the French from attacking, which means you can be spared. But they still need to be paid off, and Parliament needs to write us a check for ‘em.”

“I think some parade duty is in order,” agreed Wellington. He then looked up and cleared his throat. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Your bandages are not quite doing their work, sir.”

His face was such a mass of pain he had hardly noticed, he touched two gloved fingers to his chin; they came away bloody. “Ah. Thank you for letting me know, sir.” Colonel Fitzwilliam fumbled for his handkerchief. It was stained and stiff with blood, but he pressed it to his mouth and hoped for the best.

“Hm,” said Wellington, eyeing them all, in their unpalatable coating of dirt, blood, and flour. “A few weeks leave in Lisbon before I send you home, I think. Just until the black eyes fade. They refer to your division as the Monstrous Regiment in London. Let us not lend credibility to that nickname.”


	6. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam does not have a good time at Brighton

Colonel Fitzwilliam spent most of his leave taking long siestas in shirtsleeves and on a hammock in the lush garden of his billet, putting poultices, creams, ice, and beefsteaks on various injuries and avoiding looking at his reflection. He had never been a handsome man, like his Cousin Darcy, who turned heads when he walked into a room, but to willingly dwell upon the fury of Spanish smugglers and French troops against the British, as expressed in his physiognomy, was beyond even his capacity for genial tolerance. 

Captain Bennet was equally fretful about her eye, with the same unwillingness to reveal what she thought of as an unacceptable level of personal vanity. She groused mostly about whether or not this would affect her sight, if Wollstonecraft or her officers could hear her. It became their habit to complain more honestly about their injuries together over an afternoon glass of the light white wine the Portuguese called  _ vihno verde _ , before going their separate ways for dinner. Perhaps the fourth day into this she admitted, “My mother will go into hysterics if I somehow manage to ruin what little beauty I possess. She has very often told me that my eyes are my only good feature.”

“Fishing for compliments, Bennet?” he asked, scratching at a bandage around his forehead. “Try it on a man who may, not, at the end of this, be missing half his face. You might reel something in. This pond is dry.”

“Pish and tosh, sir, pish and tosh! Mrs. Harville is an excellent nurse. You will unwrap your bandages to find yourself handsomer than before.”

“I hope so. Any improvement would be welcome.”

She crossed her arms. “Now who’s fishing? And, any road, battle scars make men distinguished. On women they are odd, questionable, and a thing of horror. I went home to Longbourn once, after being cut from my harness straps and falling into the Channel. My mother was in hysterics— why? Because I had horrible  _ scars. _ ” She gestured at an area from right lower ribs to left hip. “But at least they can be hidden. A black eye makes things difficult, when I am back in England. How on earth could a gently reared young lady get a black eye?”

“Is there so neat a division between Captain Bennet and Miss Bennet, then?”

“Oh entirely! I only agreed to be part of this division when I knew Crawford would be with me. She loves to be  _ outré _ and to have the attention of society, and so is happy to go to balls and things and parade about, whilst I slip off to Hertfordshire and relative obscurity.”

“Are you ever in London?”

“Yes, sometimes. My mother’s parents lived near the coverts, which is how my aunt ended up an aviator; she kept slipping out to see the dragons. My uncle still has a house near-ish there, by Cheapside. I usually stay with them, when I have leave.”

“Perhaps I might visit you, then?”

She looked a little startled. “Are you quite sure? My grandfather was in trade, and my uncle currently is.”

“But  _ you _ saved my life at least thrice over in one day,” he said smiling, “and it is you I intend to visit, not your grandfather or uncle. Though I would have no objection to meeting either.”

“Well I— why that would be very kind of you. Thank you. My grandfather is dead, so barring accident or act of God you shall not meet him, but my uncle I can promise. He is a most gentleman-like man. Oh! But I must remind you that everyone thinks— or rather, their children and all their neighbors— think I am companion to our relation, Mrs. Wollstonecraft, who is eccentric, and whose wealth is in various properties all over the globe. She has been seeing to her property in Oporto.” It had not occurred to her that Colonel Fitzwilliam might wish to visit her socially, or to claim their friendship back in England. This heartened her a great deal, and she said, impulsively, “Wentworth and Lucas and I— and sometimes the Harvilles, and Fairfax, and Crawford— we have been taking in some culture while we may, and going to concerts every evening. I know you mentioned being fond of music; would you care to come with us, when you feel recovered?”

“I should enjoy that very much,” he said, with real pleasure. 

As soon as he was recovered enough to shave without causing himself further injury, he went with Captains Bennet, Wentworth, and Harville, as well as Lieutenants Lucas and Fairfax to a concert. They were a merry company, all in dress uniform, all clever and well-informed, and as happy to listen as to talk. He could not recall any time he had enjoyed going to a concert as much, and not only because the orchestra had played some Scarlatti works that were but infrequently performed. 

“Is this how you normally spend your leave?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked.

“Oh yes,” Captain Bennet replied. “Wentworth and I have been sneaking off to hear music since we were middies together on Excidium. Harville used to come with us as well, but Attia hatched early and he was called back to Loch Laggan, where there is only a small assembly room— and one cannot really hear music while dancing. We are going to the opera tomorrow if you should care to come with us?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam would and did, and b y the time they left Oporto, they were so comfortable with one another they called each other 'Fitz' and 'Bennet,' when not in company— and often when they were. This had not translated to greater comfort being in dragonback, however, which Captain Bennet found frankly absurd.

As soon as it was safe for the dragons to take off from the dragon decks in search of food, she insisted upon his accompanying her. These flights, being slow and low over the surface of the water, did a certain amount of good. Colonel Fitzwilliam trusted Captain Bennet rather than her dragon, and this trust grew, even if his comfort with her dragon did not. He also grew somewhat worried for her; they talked a great deal, while aloft, and he began to realize that Captain Bennet had been trained to battlefields, and never to ballrooms. The incident at Netherfield had shaken what little confidence she had about her comportment in what she jokingly referred to as her proper sphere, and though she had covered his hurt with a sheen of false brashness and a marked dislike of Mr. Bingley's friend— whom she refused to honor with the dignity of remembering his name— the wound was still there. Captain Bennet’s conversations often circled around this fear, that she would badly show herself up and injure her sisters thereby. If she were on her own, she would not care, but for her sisters, especially the eldest, Jane, who had nursed her through every injury that had grounded her in England, she would really do anything. Captain Bennet declared, quite meaning it, that she would sooner face an entire French division with nothing more than her wits than cause Jane Bennet to break a nail. 

“But fighting the French is not really something proper young ladies are called upon to do,” she said, one day, as Wollstonecraft flew lazily over the surface of the water, occasionally darting her talons below the surface, in search of the huge marlins that inhabited Portuguese waters. “I must behave very well in order not to injure Jane. So— I have invented a  _ very  _ clever maneuver.”

“Have you? I have been thinking on your problem and can't see how you'd get out of parade duty and general notice. Captain Bennet has been mentioned too many times in newspapers and dispatches.”

“It is a multi-pronged defense, beginning with Captain Crawford,” she said, leaning over Wollstonecraft’s side far enough to pull her carabiner straps taut. It was a hot day and though they had bundled coats, neckcloths, and waistcoats up and strapped them down carefully in the middle of Wollstonecraft’s back, the sea spray came as a very welcome relief. Captain Bennet sat down once she had been blasted with spray, her long queue of dark hair soaked. Her shirt was translucent where her hair dripped, or where she had been hit by the crest of a wave. Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed himself to acknowledge the clear outlines of stays and chemise, but made himself pretend that he saw nothing else; indeed, Captain Bennet seemed scarcely conscious of her deshabille. 

“She cannot speak for you, as formation leader,” Colonel Fitzwilliam objected, “and we are sure to be forced to a large number of state dinners and drawing rooms in full dress.”

“Captain Crawford,” she replied, trying to smooth an errant curl back into her queue, “is not replacing me, only going to distract and dazzle the multitude. She does not mind what people say about her and she has no unmarried sisters to worry about.”

“So what's the second prong?”

“Also Captain Crawford. She is procuring me an eyepatch. She had the idea when I was complaining no young lady of good character would have a black eye and said that a Captain Bennet, with trousers, eyepatch, and queue, was so far removed from a Miss Bennet of Longbourne, with gown, both eyes, and curls  _ a la greque _ , I should be in no danger or people thinking Captain Bennet of HMD Wollstonecraft is the same person as Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourne.”

“Have you a third line of defense?”

“Indeed I do! I learnt from our time constructing Wellington’s lines. I am relying heavily on the rigidity of the British class system.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam scratched one of his faint (thank God) and still healing facial scars. “I don't follow.”

“My family’s circles would never overlap with those of princes and generals, and whoever else we will be sent to impress. My parents only leave Hertfordshire to see me in London, and when there, they do not venture far above the society of my uncle and his friends. I think you’d call it shabby genteel.” She looked at him and revised this to, “Well,  _ you  _ wouldn’t, but your sisters would.”

“They absolutely wouldn't,” he said, aghast. “Your father is a gentleman! Entail or no that does not drop you and your family to  _ shabby genteel _ . Good God!”

“I work for my living.”

“You are an officer!” he protested indignantly. “A formation captain! Your rank is equivalent to my own!”

“Yes, but I am a woman.”

“That does not make you one jot less an officer.”

Captain Bennet looked at him with astonishment. Colonel Fitzwilliam felt himself blushing, feeling that he perhaps had been too warm in his praise of her. 

“That is very kind of you, but I do not think many outside the military share that opinion.”

“But it still does not make you shabby-genteel! What matters is that you are a gentleman’s daughter, and that gentleman lives upon the estate he inherited. You are therefore of the landed gentry. And they gave Admiral Roland a title; you might have one some day as well, which means you would move farther away from  _ genteel _ .”

Captain Bennet was laughing at the end of this. “I surrender, I surrender! I admit to being of the gentry and not being genteel!”

“I was raised to understand every gradation of rank,” he said, managing to laugh himself. “Eton prepared me for that much at least.”

“I suppose I bow to your superior knowledge; but my uncle is still in trade and lives in Cheapside. He is hardly likely to know the most prominent Whig politicians in England.”

“No, that is true. But do you really think an eyepatch will fool London society?”

“ _ And  _ a gown,” she countered, “which requires an entirely different way of moving and holding oneself. When not only the shape and movement of an object is changed, but the context as well....”

“I would recognize you anywhere,” he objected. 

She made a vinegar face at him. “Wollstonecraft, Fitz is being disobliging today!”

Wollstonecraft chuckled, and abruptly tilted left; he grabbed onto the harness so that instead of being dunked into the sea, he was merely hit with a thick spray raised up by Wollstonecraft’s trailing foreleg. His shirt and trousers were soaked through, and water trickled down his boot tops, but under the Iberian sun, with the breeze blowing, the effect was so pleasant, Colonel Fitzwilliam didn’t mind as much as he thought he would. 

He still flicked the excess water off his hands at Captain Bennet. “You cannot win arguments by invoking Wollstonecraft all the time.”

“Why not? The original philosopher wrote a great deal on the necessity of teaching women how to reason.” 

“Then explain your reasoning, if you please.”

“It is very simple— I am a great believer in first impressions,” Captain Bennet said, shading her eyes with her hand and grinning widely at him. “And if the first impression that one segment of society has of me is significantly different from the impression Hertfordshire people have of me, then no one shall even think to guess that Captain Bennet and Miss Bennet are one and the same.”

“I am not as great a believer in first impressions,” he replied. 

“No?”

“No, for mine are invariably wrong,” he said. “The general run of my adulthood has been realizing I’d been spoonfed a number of stupid lies about the world with my caudle. My first take on any situation always turns out to be faulty in some way.”

“What, a man of your education and understanding?”

“Yes, my education— Eton may have prepared me to understand the difference between the gentry and the genteel, but it did not exactly prepare me for....” He settled for waving a hand vaguely at the dragon, the dragon transport behind them, the coast of Portugal receding in the distance. “This. But I only mention it so as to warn you I am a difficult audience for this particular line of argument; pray proceed.”

“Lieutenant Lucas will have you believe that my belief in first impressions is my greatest weakness; thinking myself clever enough to always take the full measure of something at first glance, I mean. But in battle, a first glance is sometimes all you have before you are called upon to act.”

“It is not necessarily so in society.”

She did not believe him and said, “The way Crawford talks, all London drawing rooms are battlefields. There is a great deal of maneuvering and formation work— set conversations and topics, I mean, not groups of debutants moving about like a flock of dragons on the wing— is the order of the day and deviation from it still shocks and alarms people. 

“Society is less like the army, and more like Parliament, with which it shares a season. Everything is endlessly talked over, but one only wins when everyone does. Politics is not a zero sum game, or a battle where there must be a victor and a loser. It functions best when everyone wins something.”

She leaned back on her hands and observed him shrewdly. “That observation only proves my point.” 

“Which one?”

“About first impressions. Or, at least, the subclause that mine tend to be right. That is exactly the sort of thing I thought you would say.”

“Why, because my family is political?”

“No, because you take a great deal of pride in being a gentleman. You want everyone to win.”

“Except the French,” he quipped.

Captain Bennet laughed. “The exception that proves the rule. For all you make a career of fighting, I can't imagine you  _ actually  _ doing so when not ordered to, or on a field of battle.”

 

***

 

He unfortunately proved her wrong almost as soon as they arrived in Brighton, where the Prince Regent was still summering. 

“I think we’ve fallen into bad company, Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam muttered, as the doors were thrown open into an overheated, over decorated banquet hall that looked like what the inside of an Orientalist opium-eater's brain might look like. The domed ceiling arched above them in a pattern of glittering fish scales, at the apex of which hung an enormous silver statue of a Longwing. One could hardly see anything of the dragon but its outspread, mirror-bright wings, for in its front talons it held a thirty foot chandelier, which contained silver miniatures of every courier-weight breed native to the British isles, clustered within the crystal pendants. Anything that could be painted had been. Gold statutes burst out of the walls between paintings of Chinese domestic life on silver foil. Chandeliers dripped down from the ceiling, in random, spiky explosions of colored glass. The rugs were dizzyingly patterned and arrayed in such a way as to to suggest that the Prince Regent had gone into a warehouse, exclaimed that he could not possibly pick  _ one _ __ because he liked them all, and then taken every single rug back with him. 

Captain Bennet briefly lifted up her eyepatch, to take in the ostentatious splendor surrounding them. “I know I’m supposed to be polite and obliging while I'm here, but I won’t take an opium pipe if it’s offered me. I can’t even get through a full cigar without coughing. Admiral Roland’s quite given up on getting me to like tobacco.”

They were standing with Lieutenants Lucas and Fairfax, waiting off to the side of the antechamber, trying to spot where the Prince Regent was making his lugubrious royal progress through the crowd. Captain Bennet and Colonel Fitzwilliam had been told that as the guests of honor they should proceed in with the Prince Regent, though how this should happen had not been satisfactorily worked out. Captain Bennet was in trousers and was not inclined to take the Prince’s arm, and Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know who he was leading in, since the Prince Regent’s wife, Princess Caroline, lived not just separately from her husband, but in disgrace at Blackheath. Was Colonel Fitzwilliam supposed to lead in the Prince Regent's mistress? Had a royal sister been recruited as a hostess? The harried functionary who had informed them of their marching orders had had no answers.

Captain Bennet looked around for her officers and then laughed and shook her head. “Of course.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, doing much the same thing, and trying to kindly direct Captain Wyndham towards the lady he was leading in, asked “What?” a bit distractedly. 

“Look at Wentworth.”

Captain Wentworth was surrounded by the ladies of the Prince Regent's set. He did not know what to make of this shew of favor, and shot an annoyed look at Captain Bennet and Lieutenants Lucas and Fairfax, who were entirely unable to hide their amusement.

“Forgive me, ladies,” Wentworth said hurriedly, “my formation captain calls me.”

“Do I?” murmured Captain Bennet to Lieutenant Lucas.

“Pray have a little pity on him, captain,” said Lieutenant Fairfax.

“Only because you asked, Jane,” said Captain Bennet. She raised her voice and said, “Captain Wentworth! A moment if you please.”

He escaped gratefully.

“That's what you get, Freddy,” said Captain Bennet, in tones of mock censure, “for leaving formation like this. Swarmed by the enemy!”

Captain Wentworth looked rather sulky. 

Lieutenant Lucas, more compassionate, said, “Take Lieutenant Fairfax wherever you go.”

Lieutenant Fairfax looked startled— a rare occurrence, for she was always, in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s experience, composed and serene. “Me? How can I be of assistance?”

“You can make up duties for him to attend to, or people he needs to meet,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “I will be doing the same for Captain Bennet; indeed, I have done so in the past, and I fancy this tactic has already met with some success.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam fought a smile. This, he was sure, was the real defense against people guessing Miss Bennet and Captain Bennet were the same person: Lieutenant Lucas steering her away before anyone could get more than a fleeting impression of eyepatch and uniform. How like Lieutenant Lucas to come up with so ingenious a defense, while allowing her commanding officer to think  _ she  _ had come up with a plan, and one that played to her own beliefs. 

Lieutenant Lucas attempted to look over the crowd and said, “Captain Bennet, speaking of that— perhaps you had better head towards the doors. His Highness is nearing them.”

“Oh God,” said Captain Bennet despairingly. “He won't really make me take his arm, will he? He breathed in my face at a drawing room once, when I was bowing to him, and then he made a comment about the benefits of women in trousers when I was at last allowed to turn and take my leave. That's the closest I ever want to be to His Highness.”

“If he offers you his arm, you need to take it,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “You cannot slight our monarch.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam thought a moment and then signaled to Mrs. Gowing, who walked over curiously. 

“Mrs. Gowing— I hate to ask, but might I borrow your shawl?”

She had a Kashmir shawl, white with a green and blue paisley border at the ends, tucked about her elbows. Colonel Fitzwilliam still recalled when Gowing had purchased it for her as an engagement present, in Madras. “Of course,” Mrs. Gowing said, a little puzzled. “What do you need it for?” 

“To allow Captain Bennet to walk in on her own,” he said, taking the shawl and carefully folding it in half. “Bennet, this will probably surprise you, since that scratch of yours healed in about two days, but you grievously injured your left arm at Bussaco.”

Captain Bennet lit up at once. “Fitz, you’re top drawer! I ought to have trusted you’d think your way through my problem; you’ve a knack for these sorts of diplomatic solutions. Oh, I cannot tell you have pleased I am.” 

He colored a little, and fumbled while putting the shawl about her slender shoulders. Captain Bennet had tilted her head back to smile up at him, and even with the eyepatch, was distractingly pretty.

“Let me do it,” said Mrs. Gowing, with amused exasperation. “I can make a much better sling than you, colonel, and you well know it!”

She had Captain Bennet’s left arm tucked neatly into the sling in seconds, tweaked straight Captain Bennet’s collar and cravat (it had gotten deranged in the sling adjustment), and nodded. “There! Hopefully His Highness will feel too awkward to offer you his left arm instead.”

“Thank you! I am sorry to have taken apart your ensemble— it is still so pretty though!” 

Mrs. Gowing had chosen to wear a white Spanish satin hat with plumes, and a gown of blue-green silk, the sleeves and bodice—the same white satin as had been used on her hat— slashed to show the blue-green silk beneath it. She said, airily, “Oh, this old gown! I wore it to our ball to celebrate the lines of Torres Vedras. The hat is new, but really, I just made the old gown over to match better.”

“I would never have guessed— you were so clever altering the bodice.” Captain Bennet and Mrs. Gowing walked off towards the doors, as did Captain Wentworth, Lieutenant Fairfax faithfully at his elbow. Colonel Fitzwilliam lingered a little, where he was, watching Captain Bennet march through the crowd with her usual poise and smooth self-command. 

Lieutenant Lucas coughed and said, “Captain Bennet faces such unusual challenges in society, especially when it comes to men. She is so pretty and her disposition is so naturally lively, and her manners are so playful and informal, men are always thinking she is flirting with them when she is not.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt himself turning as red as his uniform coat. “Um,” he managed. 

“She is never aware of this,” Lieutenant Lucas told the air. “And I think it would mortify her extremely to hear what she meant as common friendliness taken for flirtation.”

“I have never once thought Captain Bennet to be flirting with anyone,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. It would have been easier, in some ways, if she had. It had been galling to realize his fancy had been so caught without the lady doing anything more than going about her business as usual.

“I speak in generalities,” said Lieutenant Lucas, calmly. “Her trouble with the Prince Regent and all.”

“Of course,” he got out. 

“It is imperative for her, and for the Corps, to be taken as and treated as an officer, as someone whose talents are first noticed rather than her sex.”

“Captain Bennet is my counterpart in this division,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, at last getting up the courage to turn and look at Lieutenant Lucas. “I admire her, certainly— as a very capable officer. I am— I am well aware of the very particular troubles she faces as not just a female officer, but as my counterpart, of a division such as ours. I would do nothing to add to her troubles.”

This had to satisfy Lieutenant Lucas, for the Prince Regent was now before Captain Bennet, looking perplexed. Colonel Fitzwilliam made his way forward, and they all walked in together, without touching, an odd little trio, all in various stages of polite embarrassment.

The dinner was interminably long. Colonel Fitzwilliam counted seventy different dishes (not even at the second remove!) and then gave up. On one side, at the foot of the table, was the current royal mistress, Lady Hertford, serving as hostess. Colonel Fitzwilliam was less than thrilled to be seated next to the The Tory Hostess of London, especially when he and both sides of his family took such pride in defining themselves as independent Whigs. Still, she was polite and gracious towards him, for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s uncle Pitt the Younger had made her husband Master of Horse. Therefore, they talked horses. They steadfastly avoided all other topics. 

On Colonel Fitzwillliam’s other side was Lady Conyngham, who was determined to oust Lady Hertford as royal mistress. After Lady Conyngham was sufficiently drunk to attack, Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself turned into rapidly endangered demilitarized zone, between two great powers determined to destroy each other. Lieutenant Lucas’s careful warning to the air had already made him feel unsettled and caused him to drink a little more than he ought. He was worn-out, drunk, and annoyed by the time the dinner lugubriously came to a close. 

It was in this state, after the ladies left and the female aviators pointedly remained that he heard a voice he never wished to hear again. He froze in his seat. It couldn't be...?

“Don't look now,” muttered Gowing, coming over with Captain Wyndham, “but it's your very favorite person.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam slowly turned his head and saw a horribly familiar figure in a militia uniform swaggering towards the other end of the table, where the female aviators had formed a defensive little clump, trying not to care that none of the gentlemen would speak to them.

Colonel Fitzwilliam involuntarily tightened his grip on the stem of his port glass. He was sure that Lieutenant Lucas had noticed, for she was eying all three infantry officers with something like surprise, while Captain Bennet, Captain Crawford, and Lieutenant Fairfax were all smiling at Mr. Wickham, too glad that someone had cared to approach them to notice anything else.

Captain Wyndham continued to glare at Mr. Wickham. “What the hell is  _ Mr. Wickham _ doing here? I can't imagine he's being celebrated for any act of spectacular military prowess. After what he did at the Battle of the Peaks....”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bit back the retort that Gowing and Wyndham didn't know the half of what Wickham had done, but this was intentional. To the best of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s knowledge, only he and Darcy knew all the facts of the matter.

“All we had to do was create an entirely new form of warfare, lose sixty-seven men, a dozen horses, and five officers, and turn the tide of two major battles, to be invited to Brighton as they Prince Regent's guests,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying to turn the conversation and not entirely managing to rein in his temper while doing so. “I'm sure Mr. Wickham has done something equally impressive. Perhaps he sold spoiled supply to the French and accidentally won us a great victory thereby.”

“Bastard still owes me ten quid,” muttered Captain Wyndham.

“You'll never see it,” Gowing groused. 

Mr. Wickham had his back to them all, and Colonel Fitzwilliam could dimly see that Captain Crawford was laughing, Lieutenant Fairfax was looking discomposed, and Captain Bennet was blushing. Mr. Wickham appeared to be flirting with them. Lieutenant Lucas, the only plain female officer and therefore not part of Wickham’s general flirtation, observed all this with a frown. She glanced occasionally at Colonel Fitzwilliam, Gowing, and Wyndham, and the frown would deepen.

‘Oh perfect,’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling extremely disgruntled. ‘If only you'd been a little less obvious about your preference! Now anything you say about Mr. Wickham will be taken for jealousy. You've really mucked it up this time, Fitz; even worse than the last time Mr. Wickham got ahead of you.’

Gowing said, “If only we’d had evidence enough to lock him up! Your cousin Darcy was the magistrate of that parish, was he not?”

“He was, and is.”

“Sometimes your family is too virtuous,” said Gowing, sounding as disgruntled as Colonel Fitzwilliam felt. “I don't think there would have been any harm in bending the law just a little. Your uncle Pitt the Younger suspended  _ habeaus corpus  _ back in the ‘90s, after all.”

“It was something he deeply regretted,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Any road, Darcy threw Wickham and the militia out of Pemberley quickly enough.”

“Because we were chasing the French to Nottinghamshire,” said Wyndham, disgusted, “and we had to take them with us. We needed the men, thanks to their failure to send us off with proper supply, and then their failure to actually show up to the field of battle when requested the first time. A hundred and twenty men killed, ninety three wounded including officers, and  _ fifteen officers _ lost, in the space of two days!”

“And I don’t forget Colonel Colthurst was in that number,” added Gowing. “He wouldn’t have died if we hadn’t had to retreat. His plan to trap the French on both sides would have worked!”

“It would have, if the militia had actually shown up,” said Wyndham, dryly, “and if our own troops weren’t so weak with hunger they kept collapsing under the weight of their packs. The fact that we even eked out a victory was thanks to Fitz here being clever about the terrain.”

“More thanks to Mrs. Gowing,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “She was the one to ride to Pemberley and insist the militia come at once.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried his best to ignore Mr. Wickham, but Gowing and Wyndham could not; and the two of them gave Wickham the cut direct when they all rose to rejoin the ladies. Mr. Wickham looked sorrowful, the scar on along the right side of his jaw  standing out more as he frowned, which made him look distinguished. Colonel Fitzwilliam well remembered how Wickham got such a scar, shortly after the Battle of the Peaks. He recalled— yet better, and with an unkind pleasure— the intense satisfaction of his clenched fist hitting Wickham's jaw, the catch as the signet ring of Britannia, inherited from his uncle Pitt the Younger, caused a deep, bleeding scrape, Wickham's stupid little twirl before he hit the floor.

“And to think,” said Mr. Wickham, to whomever would hear him, “we served together at the Peaks! Oh how soon our brother officers forget those of us in the militia.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked around to determine that they were at the back of the crowd, and unlikely to be seen, then seized Mr. Wickham by the gorget. It was another pointed attack by accessory; officers wore their gorgets as a symbol of their being on duty. Mr. Wickham jolted forward, off-balance; Colonel Fitzwilliam took an unkind pleasure in briefly cutting off Mr. Wickham’s air supply as he pulled them both out of sight, under a blindfolded and bare-breasted golden statue.

“What,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, in a dangerously quiet voice, “do you want? I told you what would happen if I ever saw you again, and by God, I meant it.”

Mr. Wickham was surprised and alarmed by this, accompanied as it was by an extremely rough release that deranged his uniform. He massaged the knot of his cravat back into order and said, laughingly, “Why, colonel! Is this how you treat a friend of your childhood?”

“It's how I treat philandering rakes who steal from their own countrymen,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Are you really going to believe the testimony of a thirteen-year-old girl over one of your comrades in arms?” Mr. Wickham asked, recovering his usual charm of manner. “Your colonel did not.”

“My colonel,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam, “died in the Battle of the Peaks, after lack of supply weakened his men, and the disorganization of the militia caused us to have to hold out against the French nearly two days longer than anticipated. I don't forget who was quartermaster of the militia and who volunteered to take over as quartermaster for the regiment, after Lieutenant Martin died of wounds taken during the evacuation of London. I know who sent us sacks of plaster dust and called it flour.”

“How could I have known a miller I had known all my life would try and cheat me?” asked Mr. Wickham, with an expression that said, ‘I dare you to say otherwise; you know how I destroyed all proof.’ 

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt his temper surge— a very rare occurrence; rare enough that he could not quite contain it. “Mr. Froggatt, cheating you! What a remarkable re-writing of history! I cannot believe you would so malign a man who died trying to get us supply! And what do you call your treatment of my ward?”

“I could call it quite a lot of things and to quite a lot of people,” said Mr. Wickham. 

Of course he would try to brazen it out— and of course he would threaten Georgiana, in such a way as to ruin her prospects forever. Colonel Fitzwilliam knew now, more than ever, how few opportunities existed for women outside of an honorable marriage— and how slim Georgiana’s chances of one would become if Mr. Wickham did talk. He seized Wickham by the lapels and shoved him against the wall.

“I’ve half a mind to call you out,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, his voice shaking with rage.

There was a sound at the door; he looked up to see Captain Bennet and Lieutenant Lucas there, looking absolutely gobsmacked. Mr. Wickham glanced over at them and began to smile. It was the sort of smile deployed only on people one dislikes. “Ah ah ah, Fitz,” said Mr. Wickham. “The Duke of Wellington has specifically forbidden his officers from dueling. Show of solidarity to the Aerial Corps, as the captains can't be risked.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam forced himself to release Wickham, uncurling one finger at a time. “You will never convince me Wellington accepted  _ you  _ as an officer.”

“No; I am attached to the Prince Regent’s household. Unlike you, I learnt a thing or two during my time as a quartermaster.”

“I learnt how to serve my fellow officers and citizens,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, coldly, “not how to enrich myself at their expense.”

“And do you really think your time in India was in the service of your fellow citizens?” Wickham asked. “Or was it in service of the East India Company?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam recoiled as if he had been physically struck. He had told his doubts to no one but Darcy, and more recently to Captain Bennet. This last reminder of Wickham’s former intimacy with the Darcy family, and his own failure to defend them, made Colonel Fitzwilliam feel full of an almost helpless anger. 

“You and I, colonel,” said Wickham, “we are in the same profession for the same purpose. Only I am wise enough to enrich  _ myself _ , not merely those already rich and in power.”

“My purpose is to do my duty!”

“Duty to whom, colonel? John Bull or gold bullion?” He was off before Colonel Fitzwilliam could think up an adequate retort. 

Mr. Wickham— Captain Wickham, saw Colonel Fitzwilliam, with a spurt of fury, noting Mr. Wickham’s insignia for the first time— sauntered off, shaking his head, and pausing to speak softly to Captain Bennet and Lieutenant Lucas. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam saw Captain Bennet look between them, uncertain, and Lieutenant Lucas cross her arms. Colonel Fitzwilliam strode forward, but Captain Wickham had vanished into the crowd. 

“I am sorry,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying to think of the most socially acceptable version of the truth. “Captain Wickham and I are not friends. He was in a militia in Derbyshire that nearly lost us the Battle of the Peaks, and certainly did cost my colonel his life. Captain Wickham said some things just now, about that time that I— I should have kept my temper. I am sorry for that display. But by God, his characterization of what happened infuriated me.” 

“An infantry officer looks down upon the militia,” Captain Bennet tried to joke. “Alert the Royal Society, this has never before been seen in nature.”

He attempted a smile but said, “Still, I am sorry. I don’t— I can’t recall the last time I lost my temper like that. I will go cool my head on the terrace. It is only—” Now that the anger had begun to fade, he was beginning to feel depressed and annoyed with himself. 

“—only when your commanding officer dies in front of you, it is hard to be emotionless about it,” said Captain Bennet, with a pitying look. She was obviously thinking of her aunt. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam had never been particularly close to Colonel Colthurst, and it felt boorish to pretend to a degree of affection that was not there, but he was not feeling up to further explanation. He murmured his excuses and turned into a likely-looking alcove that lead precisely nowhere. It was of a piece with the rest of his evening. Colonel Fitzwilliam was still poking around between columns decorated to look like palm trees, and a truly bewildering number of sea-green drapes that opened to absolutely nothing, when he heard footsteps. The last thing he wanted was to talk to people. He gave into the very childish impulse to hide in the drapes. 

“I’ve never seen Fitz act like that,” came Captain Bennet’s voice. Colonel Fitzwilliam felt alarmed. He didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, but the window he was leaning against had no latches, and he thought he would prefer to drop dead than be caught bursting out of the drapery after he’d just been caught shaking a militia captain by the lapels. There were only so many blows to his dignity he could bear with equanimity.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam is not often angry,” said Lieutenant Lucas, mildly.

‘Oh happy day!’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘Lieutenant Lucas is here too! She is fated to catch out all my moments of folly, isn’t she?’

“I have seen him angry before, though— the last time was at the flour mill. He usually just curses or says something sarcastic to relieve his feelings so he can move onto thinking up solutions. He's not the sort to be physically violent. It's part of the reason he's such a poor fencer.”

“I do have a theory,” said Lieutenant Lucas.

‘Oh God,’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, certain the next words out of Lieutenant Lucas’s mouth would be, ‘he's jealous because Captain Wickham was flirting with you.’

But Lieutenant Lucas said instead, “I think there is more to the acquaintance between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Wickham than either gentleman has told us.”

“Really? I thought Captain Wickham’s account of the Battle of the Peaks lined up with the reasons Fitz gave us for his fit of temper.”

“I don’t think there was so neat an alignment between the two explanations,” said Lieutenant Lucas cautiously. “Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, who does not genreally deviate from established social norms,  _ and  _ Captain Wyndham, who is ordinarily a very cautious man in company, both glared at Captain Wickham during the after-dinner port, and gave him the cut direct as we walked out. Neither man would do so much without significant provocation. I mistrust Captain Wickham’s account; it could not explain why all three officers, whom we have fought and bled beside, would act in a manner so contrary to their usual habits. Do you have any explanation that contradicts mine?”

“Not at all! I cannot account for it— but why would Captain Wickham lie to us?”

“I know you are inclined to think Captain Wickham everything charming and admirable, because he came up to us when none of the other gentlemen would... but if someone we know as well as Colonel Fitzwilliam—a person whom we have never before seen this angry—was moved to shove Captain Wickham against a wall and threaten to call him out....”

“Yes?”

“Something happened during the Battle of the Peaks. Something that Colonel Fitzwilliam is perhaps too cautious or too embarrassed to explain, and Captain Wickham is perhaps too clever to make known.”

Captain Bennet said, a little reluctantly, “I don't think I am wrong, but... I will admit to this much: it is really lamentable how little I know of the Battle of the Peaks. Especially since we work so closely with the regiment responsible for winning it.”

“It is a gap in your knowledge that should be corrected posthaste,” said Lieutenant Lucas. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a deep stir of misgiving. He did not know how much he wanted Lieutenant Lucas to uncover, and he knew Lieutenant Lucas too well to doubt that she would be satisfied with anything less than the full and unpalatable truth.  


	7. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam's terrible childhood nickname is revealed

To afford the dinner welcoming him and his division to London, Colonel Fitzwilliam's mother had had to sell one of her Rubens to the British Museum. He was moved beyond speech at this proof of affection, and for some moments stood stupidly in the front hall, being thoroughly unhelpful to the butler attempting to take his hat, and his drab greatcoat.

“Oh hush,” she said briskly, waving away his attempted thanks. “It is no less than your due, Fitzbilly—” he grimaced; he had always hated that nickname, ever since he was a child “—and the Museum’s collection has been so ravaged, it is hardly less than my duty to sell them part of my collection.” The safety of her collection had occupied nearly all of Lady Matlock’s waking hours before, during, and after the invasion, as they were the one part of her life that could be safely hidden away. Food stores, plate, furniture, clothes, books— all else had been stolen or destroyed or somehow spoilt; her homes deliberately taken over and ruined; both sides of her family put in horrific scenes of peril. To fret over what could not be saved struck her as unpatriotic. Her artwork was the only acceptable outlet for her feelings. Her London paintings had been hidden in the home of her brother-in-law, Lord Stanhope, whose Jacobin principles had kept his house from being targeted, and a majority of her paintings in Derbyshire had been hidden in the mines nearest the estate.

“Still—”

“My second boy is alive and with me,” said Lady Matlock, gruffly. “It is too bad I have never collected Biblical scenes for I had a great impulse to sell a scene of what’s-his-name slaughtering the fatted calf, since we haven't any fatted calves to offer you— almost no cows at all, truth be told, and all the ones left milchcows—”

“Isn't that the parable of the prodigal son? I'm hardly a prodigal. The Horse Guards could give you a very exact account of every ha’penny I've spent. There was the most hideous confusion over some pots of raspberry jam distributed during a thunderstorm, I admit to that. It has distressed the provosts unutterably and they have brought it up far more times than I really thought necessary. Perhaps I am a prodigal after all.”

His mother laughed at this, as he knew she would. “Now, about your service abroad— tell me, do the female officers get led in? I met Admiral Roland at one of Lady Allendale’s dinners but Admiral Roland tactfully came late, when the rest of us were already seated, so we avoided the issue. We really cannot have two female captains and two female lieutenants come in late.”

“No, they are not led in; and they find it a little absurd when people attempt to do so.”

Lady Matlock sighed. “I suppose we shall all just stampede in like wilderbeasts. Ah well. We must all change with the times.” Though she immediately gave the lie to this by taking out a handkerchief and rubbing his cheek with it, as if he was a spotty twelve-year-old returning from Eton for the long hols. “London is so dirty these days.”

“Mama, that’s a scar,” he said. “You cannot wipe it off.”

“Is it?” Lady Matlock peered up nearsightedly at his face. She was much too vain to ever admit to needing glasses, but she badly did. It was a subject Colonel Fitzwilliam and all his siblings attempted to bring up at least once a week. “Your brother said you had been picked up by a courier dragon and gutted it midair at Bussaco. Did it claw your face?”

“Er, no, this is the fault of the ground, rather than the dragon. Not unsurprisingly, the dragon did not hold onto me very long after I gutted it and I hit the ground face-first. It isn’t so bad, is it?”

“No, no, and it’s only been what, a few weeks? I am sure it shall heal. Sybil has a milk of roses cream that will help; I shall write her and ask her to bring it when she and the rest of your sisters come down to London, after the harvest is all in. Come on, your father will want to see you before all of Julian’s children descend and demand tales of your battles.”

Lord Matlock was seated in his study, wrapped in flannels and looking tired. The discomforts of the invasion had not been kind to his health, and it was privately the opinion of all Colonel Fitzwilliam’s sisters that the destruction visited upon Matlock were more to blame in their father’s pains than any actual physical ailment. Colonel Fitzwilliam and his elder brother, the viscount Stornoway, did not entirely agree, for when the three men were riding out together, Lord Matlock moved stiffly and with unaccustomed slowness, like a man a decade or two older than his sixty-six years of life. (“And this a man who looked like a centaur, when he rode to hounds,” Colonel Fitzwilliam had once remarked, to which Julian, Lord Stornoway, had asked, “Er, quite. The centaurs were those half-horse chaps, weren’t they?” Julian’s very expensive education had not had very much impact upon him.)  Still, Lord Matlock brightened and attempted to struggle to his feet when he saw Colonel Fitzwilliam enter.

“Oh no, no, don’t rise for me, father,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, rushing over. “How are you, sir?”

“Racketing along, dear boy, racketing along,” said he. “Your mother thinks I should go to Bath.”

“He should take the waters,” said Lady Matlock, a little worriedly. “Do you not think he ought to take the waters? It would do him a world of good with his rheumatism.”

“The expense of getting a house, my dear—”

“There is no putting a price on health.”

“There is a price for renting a house in Bath, and it is one I am loathe to take on when we have yet to rebuild all the crofters’ cottages in Derbyshire.”

“Nonsense, it would only cost one of the van Dyks—”

“You cannot sell the van Dyks! The first Earl of Matlock started that collection.”

“Then the Vigee-Lebrun—”

“No one is going to buy a French artist my dear—”

This was evidently an argument of long standing; Colonel Fitzwilliam interrupted with a cheerful, “Well, as long as you do not decide sea-bathing is the answer to all your ills and go to Brighton. It is a ghastly place.” He entertained both parents with talk of the Prince Regent’s dinner and the Royal Pavillion. He did not discuss Mr. Wickham. He had kept news of that affair from his parents. They had only just then been driven from Matlock; he had not wished to tell them of how close won a thing the Battle of the Peaks had been, or revealed just what might have happened to Georgiana, if Darcy had not been so attentive an elder brother.

He did however ask, “Will the Darcys be here?”

Lord Matlock replied, “No, they agreed to remain in Derbyshire a little longer to help make sure the harvest was in properly, so that we might come welcome you without worry. Young Darcy is just like his father in that respect. If there is any good he can do, he has begun on it before one has even realized the need.”

“And Georgiana stays with him?”

Lady Matlock nodded. “Oh yes. She hardly leaves her brother’s side— quite refused to go to school again this year. Though I really cannot blame her. She was full young, only, what, thirteen? When the French reached the Peaks? I imagine she does not like to leave her brother’s protection, just in case they will come back.”

“I imagine that is at least partly the case.” But then in came in his niece and nephew, followed by their doting but very ineffectual papa.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was very glad to see Julia, intrepidly leading the way, with the sort of jaunty run particular to toddlers, where they always seemed about thirty seconds from tipping over, followed by Spencer, newly breeched and not entirely sure he liked it. Colonel Fitzwilliam leapt up and only just managed to catch Julia before she flung herself headlong into a fire screen. “Careful now! You'll take off like a dragon next!”

“Fly straight across the room,” agreed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s elder brother. Julian held out his arms, covering the room in a couple of quick strides; Colonel Fitzwilliam tossed Julia over to him, ignoring the protests of Lady Matlock. Julia squealed in delight before being caught safely up in her father’s arms.

“Regular Longwing you've hatched there, Julian,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. He bent over at once and hoisted up his nephew. “And Spencer, in breeches now! Has your papa started teaching you how to play cricket? No? We’ll have to start when your Uncle Darcy comes. He's the best bowler in the family.”

Spencer bashfully hid his head against Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, a little overwhelmed by this attention. Colonel Fitzwilliam could finally turn his attention to his elder brother, and felt a rush of almost painful tenderness seeing the gray at Julian’s temples. Julian had started wearing his hair longer and parting it on the left— which almost but did not quite conceal the scar on his right temple, stretching to the back of his head. Julian and his family had been the only ones at Matlock when the French descended upon it— the Earl and Countess had been with the provisional government in Edinburgh, his sisters with their husbands, and Colonel Fitzwilliam in Kent, trying to keep the French from heading northward— and Julian had thrown himself against the front door, armed only with a sense of duty and the very few brains God had given him. A French hussar had stuck Julian in the head with a saber as soon as the doors opened. Lady Matlock liked to joke it was fortunate Lord Stornoway had been hit on the head, for there was precious little there to damage, but everyone had been terrified at the time.

Julian, dangling his daughter upside down and trying to fumble her right side up again, said, “Richard, what happened to your face?”

“Injuries,” he replied, cheerfully enough. “You're one to talk. I can still see the stitches at your temple.”

Julian looked vaguely hapless, and their mother cut in, “Boys, set a good example for the next generation would you?”

Their “yes Mama”s were automatic and rather put-upon.

Julian's wife then glided in, elegant but as well-rigged out as a cutter, coasting  through the waves, in her gown of light, finely woven white muslin. Lady Stornoway had been born Lady Marjorie Spencer, daughter of the second Earl Spencer, and was currently known as one of the reasons Wellington could so effectively plan for Shoeburyness. She had been captured at Matlock after her husband had been incapacitated and, after extracting a promise neither she nor her children would be harmed if she came quietly, had been taken back to London, where she lost no time in charming her captors and setting herself up as a confidante to Caroline Murat, née Bonaparte. Within a week of her capture, Lady Stornoway had begun gathering information. Within two, she had begun to pass all she had gathered to Lady Hamilton, who, in turn, set it all down in letters to be smuggled out of London and up to the provisional government in Edinburgh. One would not guess so formidable a mind and so indomitable a will lurked behind the wide, brown eyes, the prettily arranged brown tresses still untouched by gray, the beautiful features in their habitual expression of carefully maintained sweetness. Or at least, the French had never guessed. Even English society was not entirely sure of all Marjorie Spencer Fitzwilliam, Lady Stornoway, was capable of and had done for England; they only knew that it was great, and that officials from the Foreign Office tended to interrupt any conversation with Lady Stornoway that got too specific about what she had done during the invasion.

“Richard,” said Marjorie, floating over to him and kissing the air above his cheek. “Our little welcoming committee got away from me, I see. But it is so very good to see you. I took the liberty of agreeing to some engagements for you already, but not many— I thought I ought to see how all the dragon captains got on with this little family party before sending them into the rest of society.” This little family party, though technically accurate, was comprised of the most prominent Whig families in England: the Spencers, the Cavendishes, the Pitts, the Stanhopes, and the Fitzwilliams. The fact that Lady Matlock had carefully seen to it that all these families were, in fact, family, spoke either to her skill in matchmaking or the fact that the English aristocracy was about as inbred as English thoroughbreds.

“Thank you Marjorie,” he said, depositing Spencer on Lord Matlock’s blanket-covered lap. “I do have a question for you, if you have a minute.”

“For you, I have five. Shall we talk a quick walk in the shrubbery?”

“Make sure to go wash up when you're done,” said Lady Matlock.

“It's a scar, not— nevermind. Yes Mama, I will.” He kissed her cheek, put a hand to his father’s shoulder, affectionately and lightly punched Julian in the upper arm before following Marjorie out.

They talked in a desultory fashion about the Mixed Model Division and his colleagues in it, mostly confirming impressions Marjorie had gleaned from her dear friend Captain Crawford’s letters. When they were sufficiently far from the house, Colonel Fitzwilliam casually brought up Captain Bennet and Lieutenant Lucas.

“Oh yes, Mary thinks so highly of them— Lieutenant Lucas a little more than Captain Bennet, truth be told. The lieutenant and Mary have a similarly pragmatic turn of mind.”

“Lieutenant Lucas is one of the most capable officers I have ever met.” He had idly picked up a branch and swished it at the hedges. “Which means that when she says she wants to find out something, she does.”

“And what, pray, can she find out about _you_ that you are anxious not to have generally known? Are you embarrassed still about the Widow Howe, since you were fool enough to offer for her and she rightly turned you down?”

He flushed but said, composedly enough, “I haven't heard from Sarah Howe since I left India. It's not that— it's... Marjorie, what is commonly known about the Battle of the Peaks?”

They had wandered into the rose garden; Marjorie paused to pull some withered leaves off a branch. “The Robin Redbreasts flew up to Derbyshire to keep a division of artillery and infantry from marching that way up towards Edinburgh. You managed to draw them towards the Peaks, where you had the high-ground and held them there for two days, until Mr. Darcy’s militia could arrive and surprise them up from behind. I believe your Colonel wished to gain a surrender thereby but he died fairly early on and the French fled, and you had to chase them down to Nottinghamshire. I do recall there being some issue with supply and the militia being two days late, and Mrs. Gowing having to ride for Pemberley to fetch them. But still, the French broke rank and fled. It was the first victory we could claim for you. I cannot see anything in that to alarm you.”

“It has to do with the supply,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “or the lack of it. We were given sacks of plaster dust instead of flour. Our men were so weak with hunger it was impossible to chase the French; indeed, I am astonished we held out as long as we did. It turned out there was... embezzlement. My colonel sent a message about it— one confirming when the milita should arrive. The note was never received by the colonel of the militia. Our embezzler friend did not wish to be caught out and was willing to let our entire regiment die to keep from being found out.”

Marjorie looked intrigued. “Indeed? You talk as if you know who the embezzler was.”

“Yes, I do but I don’t have....”

“...any proof?”

He hesitated and said, “There was proof, besides the note, but it was destroyed.”

Marjorie looked up at him then, with a swift, calculating look and said, “Who are you protecting, Richard?”

“It's not the person who sold our flour to the French, if that's what you're worried about,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “And I didn't destroy the proof. The guilty party destroyed it, and neither I nor Darcy were in a position to do anything about it when it occurred.”

After a moment, Marjorie said, “Ah. I have another guess then. But if it has to do with Georgiana, then just... assure me that she did not....”

“No, she merely found out about the flour being sold to the French.” He hesitated, unsure what he was at liberty to say. “She was not believed, when she went to Colonel Colthurst. So she confronted the culprit— culprits, rather, and... it... didn’t end particularly well. No harm came to her. We made sure of that. But it was threatened.”

“I thought she was more skittish than could be explained by merely the invasion, considering the fact that the French never made it to Pemberley.” Marjorie considered this new information and said, “And I take it that the manner in which Georgiana was threatened— if it got out—”

“It must never get out.”

Marjorie nodded. “You and Darcy did well. I never heard a hint of anything touching on... but no matter. Are you afraid Lieutenant Lucas will somehow dig it up, when you’ve managed to successfully keep it quiet all these years?”

“Yes, that is— none of my officers know the full story, only that there was gross mismanagement of army supply, and I personally thought _one_ person was responsible for that and for Colonel Colthurst’s orders going astray— but I had no evidence and Darcy was too scrupulous a magistrate to lock up a man without any evidence. My officers all suspect the same person I do, but how much of it was because I didn’t hide my opinion and how much is because of their own ideas on the matter I could not tell you.”

“Does anyone besides you, Darcy, and the guilty party know of all the facts of the case, especially as they touch on Georgiana?”

“Georgiana’s governess of the time, a Mrs. Younge. She was found to be a collaborator and dismissed when Darcy threw the militia out of Pemberley. We neither of us have heard of her since the invasion.”

“In that I may be of some assistance,” said Marjorie, with a beatific smile. “I still have my contacts and connections from the invasion; I shall track her down. And I shall keep Lieutenant Lucas from finding her.”

“Thank you,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, very much relieved.

 

***

 

The dinner itself passed easily and well. He was very happy to see all his family again, and entered into every conversation with ease and alacrity. Though proceeding into dinner had been rather a mess, the dinner itself was good and everyone left it better pleased with each other than before. Colonel Fitzwilliam was pleased to see Captain Bennet got along famously with Lady Hester Stanhope, a noted wit who had been Pitt the Younger’s hostess, and who was still Colonel Fitzwilliam’s favorite cousin (save Darcy).

“I should have gone for a dragon captain, instead of being sent to Grandmama’s, when my father didn't know what to do with me,” Lady Hester declared, when tea and coffee had been brought in. “What a fascinating life you lead, Captain Bennet!”

Captain Bennet laughed. “I wonder you can think so when you have been so much at the heart of all that happens in England.”

“I have been much less so since Uncle Billy died,” she said, with a melancholy smile. “And as violent as the opposition was between my uncle and Mr. Fox, it was nothing like the battles I am sure you have seen.”

Lady Hester pressed her for stories of battle, which Captain Bennet was eager to give. Colonel Fitzwilliam was so distracted by this he failed to notice Lieutenant Lucas making the rounds about the drawing room, gently extracting information from his parents, brother, and all his various cousins. He only caught onto it when he heard Marjorie say, in a deliberately carrying tone of voice, “Oh yes, the Battle of the Peaks— I am afraid none of the family knows much of it, for Matlock had just been attacked a few weeks prior. My poor husband was dead to the world— I really thought him dead, until we reunited after Shoeburyness— and I was being held captive in London. Lord and Lady Matlock were in Edinburgh with the rest of the government.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam politely excused himself and went over to his mother. “Mama, I crave a boon.”

“Name it, Fitzbilly,” said she, grandly.

“Might we have some music?”

“Fitzbilly?” Captain Bennet whispered, when a Pitt cousin was at the instrument and he took his seat again.

“Now you know my most jealously guarded secret,” he joked. “Only my mother still calls me that, after my Uncle Billy. Well, and my siblings, when they're annoyed with me. It's a nickname I've never liked.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been afraid he had ruined their friendship with his show of temper at Brighton, but she laughed heartily at his nickname, and they fell into joking with each other once again. Occasionally Captain Bennet looked curiously at him when she thought he wouldn’t catch it, but he managed to avoid any mention of Derbyshire, the Battle of the Peaks, or Mr. Wickham by introducing her to various family members he spotted. He fancied that Captain Bennet had forgot about the incident by the time Marjorie organized a party for the family at the London covert. Captain Bennet only glanced at him then to invite him to share in her amusement.

“Oh, er,” said Julian, face-to-face with Wollstonecraft. “You're quite large.”

Wollstonecraft blinked one large, reptilian eye. “Thank you, my lord.”

“And what large teeth you have.”

“Those are bone spurs, sir,” said Captain Bennet.

“Ah,” said Julian, voice a little high with nerves. “And, ah... what are they for?”

“I spit acid out of them,” said Wollstonecraft.

“Do you?” Julian said haplessly.

“Yes.”

“That's—that must be very thrilling for you.”

Wollstonecraft looked at him. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

Marjorie floated over, trying very much not to look as nervous as she clearly felt. “Stornoway dear— have you seen Captain Crawford?”

“No, my love, but have you have you met the dragon Wollstonecraft?” Julian turned to Marjorie, his nerves somehow transfigured in the crucible of good manners into a rictus grin with a somewhat manic air. “She has, ah, bone spurrs. These rather big ones there. She shoots acid through them. Is that not thrilling?”

“That is a word one could choose to apply to that general situation, I suppose,” said Marjorie. “It is not the first that comes to my mind.”

“My lady, you really have no cause to be nervous,” said Captain Bennet, rubbing Wollstonecraft’s nose, between the very sharp bone spurs full of acid.

“No cause—” Marjorie began and then cut herself off with a polite, “To— to be sure.”

“Really, ma’am,” insisted Captain Bennet. “I was climbing about Wollstonecraft when I was... oh dear, how old was I?”

“About the age of the runners,” said Wollstonecraft.

“So, six or seven,” Captain Bennet said, leaning her right elbow on  Wollstonecraft’s nose (her left arm was still in the fake sling). “I was perfectly safe. Indeed, I even went aloft then, without a harness or anything, and no harm came to me.”

“I will never let any harm come to you,” said Wollstonecraft.

“Not intentionally, I know.” Captain Bennet turned to Marjorie with a cheerful air. “Were you much among dragons during the French invasion, ma’am?”

“I saw Lien once or twice, and Marshal Murat's dragon was always in the courtyard, but no, no— they kept me isolated for most of my time as prisoner.”

Captain Bennet looked a little startled at this. “But I always heard—”

“I made the most of my time when they let me out,” she replied, glancing at a man from the Foreign Office hovering discreetly nearby. “If you will excuse me— Colonel Fitzwilliam, I think I may need you. Do come with me?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed and followed, noting with amusement that Captain Wentworth was as surrounded by female admirers as Captain Crawford with men. The former was somewhat perplexed but by no means dissatisfied, and the latter clearly having the time of her life. Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head, amused.

Marjorie was speaking in low voices with the man from the Foreign Office as they passed the ferals, who were all ignoring Commander Benwick. They were too busy begging for treats, or trying to steal them outright. Gherni and Winge had developed a sort of double con where Winge did tricks and butted at hands to be petted, while Gherni flitched people’s unattended plates.

Colonel Fitzwilliam whistled at her; Gherni looked up guiltily, cheese smeared over her muzzle. “Gherni!” he said sternly. “No! You know better than this.”

She chittered at him defensively.

“Bad girl, Gherni,” he said sternly. “That’s very rude. _Rude_. Come here.”

Gherni made a grumbling protest but sulkily came to him, wings drooping. Colonel Fitzwilliam took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped off her snout without thinking, as he might have done for his neice or nephew— indeed, as he had just done that morning for Julia, who had not quite understood that the point of feeding oneself was to put food in one’s mouth instead of on one’s face— and as his mother still did to him.

Marjorie turned away from the Foreign Office gentleman to stare at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You... Richard, dear brother, how is it you are unafraid of that creature?”

“I could no more be afraid of Gherni than I could be of Dulcinea,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, scrubbing at a bit of rind on Gherni’s nose. “She doesn’t breathe fire or spit acid or the like, all she does is fly and get into things she shouldn’t. Remember the net Gherni? Benwick told me the French netted you because you were going for their eagle.” She whistled at him in a particular trill, a noise she often made when she saw something shiny. He recognized as he would Dulcinea’s particular snort when she was thirsty. “I know it was shiny. It was still a damn fool thing to have done.” He folded up his handkerchief and tucked it back in his pocket.

Marjorie looked mystified and said, “I suppose one grows accustomed to anything. It is only getting over the intial shock that one truly struggles with.” She turned to the Foreign Office man, said something low and soft, pointed in a direction, waited for his nod, and then curtsied. He walked off.

Colonel Fitzwilliam took his place at Marjorie’s right.

“Mrs. Younge is running a boarding house down that street,” said Marjorie softly. “I’ve told them I wanted to track her down because Captain Wickham, whom you suspect to have sent you plaster instead of flour during the Battle of the Peaks, was unpleasant to you at Brighton. Speaking of—” Marjorie’s lips tightened “—my contacts also discovered why Captain Wickham was part of the Carlton House set.”

“Shared values?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, dryly. None of the Whigs liked the Prince Regent; very few had since Mr. Fox had died and the Prince Regent turned towards the Tories.

Marjorie permitted herself a smirk. “I daresay that played a part, but the Captain seems to have made a number of friends during the invasion— not just ones that wished to purchase from him. He now supplies opium to the Prince Regent.”

He swore, and apologized.

Marjorie waved away his apology. “It’s worth swearing about. We won’t be able to shake Captain Wickham.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt suddenly, desperately weary. He realized suddenly that he had not had had a proper stretch of leave since 1807. In the past three— nearly four— years, he had only taken leave to recover from injuries that left him incapable of fulfilling his duties. "What do you think we should do?"

“Nothing, until your hand is forced,” said Marjorie. “Keep quiet but keep a weather eye—” She cut herself off abruptly and said, “Where is Lieutenant Lucas? She was following us; I had an eye on her, but when you were messing about with that little dragon I quite lost sight of her.”

“Probably with Captain Bennet,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was not terrifically sure of this, however, and said, “Why don’t you make sure your friend wasn’t followed? I’ll go talk to Captain Bennet.”

He returned just in time to see his cousin Lady Hester be assisted onto Arkady’s back.

Lady Hester gave him a cheerful wave as Arkady broke into a run, spread his wings, and took off.

Colonel Fitzwilliam shaded his eyes and watched her gain altitude. “Well. I always knew Hester was the bravest of us all.”

“She is absolutely fearless,” said Captain Bennet, with a laugh. “I like her enormously.”

“Is Lieutenant Lucas about?”

Captain Bennet was perched on one of Wollstonecraft’s forelegs and rose easily to her feet, before tapping the gold chain attached in loops to Wollstonecraft’s collar. “Dearest, have you seen Charlotte? I haven’t seen her in quite some time.”

“I am not sure,” said Wollstonecraft, raising her head and looking about the grounds. “I do not see her.”

But no more than a quater-of-an-hour later, Lieutenant Lucas showed up on the back of Gherni.

“This greedy guts needed to be removed from temptation as the tables were being re-set, and Benwick had his hands full with the others,” said Lieutenant Lucas, pushing her goggles up into her hair. “Did you know she and Winge had a double-con going on, Lizzy?”

This made sense, but Colonel Fitzwilliam felt distinctly uneasy.

 

***

 

Though generally the _ton_ remained in the country for most of the autumn, either supervising harvests or hunting, London was very full. Everyone was curious to see the Monstrous Regiment, or inclined to come back early because the Prince Regent was promising to do so by December, at least. For three weeks, Colonel Fitzwilliam was plunged into the social whirl he associated more with late winter and early spring than late autumn. It made him feel more tired than he had already, as if time had flown by without his noticing.

He did not particularly mind all the parade duty, which was hardly difficult after months of hard marching and fighting in enemy territory, nor all the dinners, balls, routs, card parties etc as he had grown up with them, but he was on edge at the idea of running accidentally into Captain Wickham in one of these places, and could not shake the feeling that Lieutenant Lucas knew where Mrs. Younge ran her boarding house. He had no evidence to support this, nor any real reason to believe so— it was just something he feared so much he felt it must have come to pass. He told himself he was being irrational; that injuries and exhaustion had so worked upon him to put him in an ill-humor.

But, when the Darcys arrived in town, he felt he could not entirely put his fears to rest long enough to give them their usual day alone, to recover from the three day journey from Derbyshire. He dismounted Dulcinea to see Georgianna rush out into the stableyard, still in her traveling coat. She flung herself into his arms at once.

“Georgiana!” Colonel Fitzwilliam let momentum carry him into swinging her about, as he had done when she was considerably smaller. He reflected that he would not be able to do so for many years longer— the Darcys ran to tallness and Georgiana, at sixteen, already came up to his shoulder. “You sprout up two feet each time I see you! The next time I'm back from Spain you'll be towering over me.”

He set her down but she gripped onto him anxiously and asked, “But you're not going to go back to Spain _very_ soon are you?”

“Not until spring,” he assured her. “Wellington’s hunkered down behind his lines for the winter.”

Georgiana was not entirely reassured by this; Colonel Fitzwilliam recalled how, after the incident he mentally termed the Mess at Pemberley, Georgiana had practically lived in the stables and kennels, and said, “You cannot have failed to notice I am not riding Perrault.”

Georgiana at last released him and turned her attention to Dulcinea. Colonel Fitzwilliam clicked his tongue; Dulcinea shook her mane and bowed.

“Oh!” breathed Georgiana, enchanted, but then, fearfully, asked, “Nothing happened to Perrault did it?”

“No, not at all! He's a stout fellow, and I still ride him to hounds and use him when I'm not around dragons.” He was still explaining about the _Hispano_ when Darcy appeared in the yard. Colonel Fitzwilliam trailed off, and seeing Georgiana tentatively stroking Dulcinea’s dusty neck, with several grooms hovering politely in attendance, added, “Georgiana, can I trust Dulcinea with you?”

She lit up. “Oh really? You would trust me with her?”

“Of course! I’m just going to talk with Darcy a moment. Water her before you ride her.”

Darcy was not demonstrative in his affection, and it touched Colonel Fitzwilliam absurdly that Darcy warmly shook his hand before leading him indoors. “Come, let us to my study. I am informed by my butler that I have a very tolerable brandy to offer you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam waited until Darcy had served them both before saying, “Darcy— I must confess this early a visit is not purely because I missed you and Georgiana— though I did— I....” He tried to think of a way to soften the blow and could not. “I ran into Mr. Wickham at Brighton.”

Darcy froze. “Wickham?”

“Yes; he is a captain of the militia now.”

“Not,” Darcy said flatly, “in mine. The Derbyshire milita was disbanded after Shoeburyness.”

“No, he is part of the Brighton militia, which, as far as I can tell, exists purely for ornamental purposes. Well, that and to aid and abet smugglers along the coast.”

Darcy made a terse gesture, inviting him to continue.

“Marjorie asked around— discreetly, you know, through the Foreign Office’s network. Wickham is a general favorite with the Carlton House set because he procures opium for the Prince Regent. His is apparently the best quality one can get. He has contacts amongst the Excise Men, made during our time patrolling the coast in ‘07.” Colonel Fitzwilliam felt weariness encroaching again, climbing up his coat tails and the back of his jacket to perch on his shoulders and weigh them down. He tossed back the glass of brandy with little to no care for the fineness of the vintage. The lingering sweet aftertaste was the only thing that allowed him to recognize he had drunk _brandy de Jerez_ instead of cognac. Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a sort of sentimental warmth. Of course Darcy would buy Spanish brandy instead of French, loyally supporting an ally.

“I am grieved indeed,” said Darcy, setting down the bottle on the table so carefully and methodically one could hardly see how his hands were shaking with anger. “Grieved that we did not do more to halt Wickham’s career before it approached this nadir. Bad enough he trafficked in stolen flour when the French were burning our fields— now he is involved in the opium trade?”

“Heavily so.”

“Did he make himself known to you?”

“Unfortunately— and to my counterparts in the Aerial Corps. I have reason to believe he was lying to them about the mess— the Battle of the Peaks, I mean.”

Darcy looked out of the study window, at where Georgiana was braiding ribbons into Dulcinea’s mane. “Did he say anything...?”

“Nothing about Georgiana, that I could tell, but he threatened that he could say any number of things to any number of people.” Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed the brandy decanter but being drunk at Brighton had resulted in his aggravating an already bad situation and then getting trapped in the drapery. He set his glass to the side. “I got the impression that he mischaracterized the Battle of the Peaks in a self-aggrandizing way— in a way that would reflect badly on me and my regiment and probably on you. I am fearful he mentioned Georgiana, but I do not think he said anything to ruin her.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“That I do not know.” He said, after a moment, “However....”

“Yes?”

“There are ways of finding out. I have been avoiding doing so, for fear of—” Of reminding Captain Bennet of an event he was ashamed to have her witness? Of Captain Bennet’s thinking ill of him? “—of drawing attention to it. I thought if I ignored it, and treated my altercation with Wickham as something I was rather ashamed of, it would not be a subject my colleagues wished to look into.”

“I think we must know,” said Darcy. “We cannot know how to defend ourselves if we have not some idea of the threat.”

“I shall find out then.”

At Almack's that evening, Colonel Fitzwilliam attempted to do so. He walked in to see Captain Crawford, wearing a gown in aviator green, smoking a cheroot and looking loftily amused at all the gentlemen surrounding her. The ladies did not know what to make of her.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” called out Captain Crawford, spotting him. “How are you, sir?”

“Very well, I thank you— and yourself?”

“Oh, tolerably well, I thank you.”

“Might I claim you for the next, if you are not otherwise engaged?”

She dropped her cheroot into one of her harem’s glasses of lemonade, and regally unfurled her arm, to present him with her gloved hand. “Of course!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam led her to the floor, to the disappointment of all the men about her.

“I am surprised to see you at Almack’s,” said Captain Crawford. “You seemed properly done up today; Captain Bennet remarked on it particularly.”

“You do not feel even remotely tired from so punishing a schedule as we have had?”

“A little, but I wished to go to Almack’s before the patronesses thought to rescind my membership,” she said, curtseying in response to his bow. “I might as well take advantage of it while I can. I am sure the only reason they did not rescind my membership already is because they did not think I would have the audacity to actually come here. Any road, everyone else is being dull and domestic. Captains Bennet and Wentworth are visiting her family in Cheapside, the Harvilles are gone to see the captain’s sister Phoebe, Benwick in tow....” She let out something of a brittle laugh. “I did mean to go see my brother Henry but he has not really forgiven me for taking the Admiral’s place instead of him. Where are your family?”

“They should be here,” he said, gesturing towards the other dancers. “I came in search of them, as a matter of fact. I dined with my cousins, the Darcys, and when I came home, was informed my family had all gone out.”

Captain Crawford was silent a moment, then asked, “Your cousins, the Darcys?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was sure she had waited to ask just when she knew the dance would part them. When they were reunited, he said, “Yes, my cousins, the Darcys. Do you know them?”

“Only by reputation,” she said mysteriously.

Again they parted. When they rejoined each other, Captain Crawford said, “I was quite surprised to hear you were cousins with the Darcys, you know— I hear them everywhere talked about as very proud, disagreeable people. The brother especially."

“Where exactly did you hear this?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, in some alarm.

“Oh, here and there,” said Captain Crawford mysteriously. “The brother’s estate— Pemberley is it? It is close to the Peaks in Derbyshire, is it not?”

“Oh yes, very. My regiment spent an evening there before marching to the Peaks.”

“I hope your regiment found a warmer welcome there than the militia.”

“My cousin was a perfect host to all of us, regulars and militia alike. Indeed, the militia were so comfortable they did not come to us at the agreed upon time and spent an extra night at Pemberley.”

The dance parted them, then reunited them at the top of the set, where they could stand and talk unmoving, and in relative privacy. “I thought that was because the French intercepted your first messenger, causing Mrs. Gowing to take on the role the day afterwards.”

“It was a settled thing between Colonel Colthurst and the colonel of the militia that we should set out and lure the French to the Peaks, and then the colonel of the milita should set out and trap the French in a particular path. Colonel Colthurst sent a messanger once we were in position, asking the milita to begin their march, and requesting more flour, as the supplies we carried turned out to be nothing more than plaster. But the militia never came— Colonel Colthurst was killed, as were so many officers, I was forced to send Mrs. Gowing. Without her riding to Pemberley, we would all have died.”

“The militia saved you?”

He could not keep his expression from becoming tense, and dark. “Not as we all saw it and see it; the militia failed to keep up its part of the agreed upon battleplan. If they did not hear from us at all, they were to march at night—and yet they did not do so. We are alive in spite of the militia, not because of it.”

Captain Crawford looked at him in some surprise and asked, “And I suppose you shared this interpretation of events with your cousin and that was why he threw out the militia?”

“Threw out?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked. Though this was technically true, Colonel Fitzwilliam had immediately tried to cover it up and only referred to it as such with people he trusted. “What do you mean? After the Battle of the Peaks, we were barely half a regiment. We took the militia with us to Nottinghamshire because we had no one else. Believe me, it was not a choice made lightly.”

“Hm,” said Captain Crawford. “It might astonish you to know the milita have a very different interpretation of events."

“Astonish me, Captain.”

“Well, according to the Derbyshire militia, the French killed your first messenger. They had no notion you were waiting upon them until Mrs. Gowing galloped up Pemberley’s drive, her horse more lather than animal— at which point they marched to the Peak and saved your lives. Everyone marched back to Pemberley for supplies, which Mr. Darcy was tired of giving, and so the next day he cast everyone out... and some officers particularly, for daring to be too friendly to his sister when they were insufficiently titled or wealthy. The militia then joined up with you, to avenge the death of their own colonel, who was also killed during the Battle of the Peak.”

“Upon my word,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling angry, “what do they think an order is, especially when given by the only colonel in the county? Something to be ignored in favor of the will of the richest man in the room? We had not men enough to call ourselves a full regiment after the Battle of the Peaks; I took over the militia so that we had a fighting chance against the French in Nottinghamshire.”

Captain Crawford looked at him with some concern and said, “Your Robin Redbreasts might want to sing this story a little louder. The version I gave you was the one I heard all over Brighton.”

“It is wrong,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, flatly. Still, it was not as bad as it could be.

He reported on this to Marjorie and Darcy the next day. Marjorie sighed. “At least there is no threat of scandal attached to Georgiana. Any brother would cast out unsuitable men making themselves friendly to his very young sister. But if it is all over Brighton, then Wickham has thoroughly embedded himself in the Prince Regent’s society. And the way he characterized Darcy's actions— Wickham could easily insinuate, based on that, that Georgiana had welcomed these attentions.”

Darcy looked murderous.

“At thirteen?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“I have heard thirteen-year-olds be accused of such before,” said Marjorie. “And the milita will march next week, and then take a week to be sure London is safe enough for the Prince Regent....” She trailed off. “I know the two of you are Georgiana's guardians, but I would strongly advise that when the Brighton militia arrives in London, you be well out of it.”

“I... have been very tired lately,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Even my colleages in the Aerial Corps have noticed it. A nice, restorative lease in the countryside— a fortnight’s leave— that seems to me a very good idea. Perhaps I ought to take Georgiana with me.”

“And Darcy must go with you,” said Marjorie. “You are so close and have so missed each other— ah. I have an idea. Stornoway and I always go to Lady Catherine for a fortnight every fall, to kill some of her birds for her. Why do we not make it a family party? There is nothing strange or exceptional about that!”

 

***

 

Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam took Georgiana to the opera that evening, as a treat before dragging her so soon away from town to Lady Catherine’s. She bore the news of this visit philosophically, though she was so terrified of Lady Catherine she usually hated Rosings, but then again, Colonel Fitzwilliam was beginning to look as exhausted as he felt. He nodded off during part of a recitatif. 

He was annoyed with himself— even if Gluck was not his favorite composer, it was rude to sleep through him— but Georgiana looked worried, and said, “Are you sure we cannot leave earlier? You are running yourself ragged, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“I shall check in with my counterpart in the Aerial Corps,” he said. “I am sure Gowing will be good enough to take over for me, since he is just back from seeing his wife’s people up north.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to shake himself awake and, when that did not work, began scanning the other boxes, to see who was there. To his surprise and pleasure, Captain Bennet, sans eyepatch, and in a gown, was in a box opposite and farther back from the stage; Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed himself a moment of unobserved admiration before he caught her eye and bowed. She struggled a moment to recall the proper response and then settled upon inclining her head. A very elegant woman next to her noticed this and bent to whisper to Captain Bennet. Colonel Fitzwilliam turned his attention back to the stage as Darcy whispered, “Who are you bowing to?”

“Oh, er, an acquaintance from Portugal,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, reassuring himself that this was not a lie, not merely all the truth. He glanced at Georgiana, who was leaning forward, almost out of the box, utterly enraptured by the music. Still, it did not hurt to be cautious; he slid his chair back and lowered his voice. “Miss Bennet is the companion of some family friend, a Mrs. Wollstonecraft, who owns property all over the globe. Formidable woman, Mrs. Wollstonecraft. Absolutely terrified me the first time I met her.”

“The name Bennet is familiar—”

“Her family is from Hertfordshire, if that helps?”

“Ah. I have met the Bennets of Hertfordshire.” Darcy looked back at the box and said, grumpily, “I know you could not be particularly choosy for English company while abroad, but you would do better to forget whatever acquaintance you had with Miss Bennet and Mrs. Wollstonecraft now you are in England.”

“Really? Why do you think so? I find Miss Bennet to be delightful company. And she was instrumental in evacuating British citizens behind the lines of Torres Vedras.” ‘And how would a gently bred young lady, companion to a formidable aunt do that?’ he asked himself. Colonel Fitzwilliam hastened to add, “She and her aunt, or cousin, or whatever the relation is— I did not pay attention when it was explained, and by the time I realized I did not know, it was too late to ask— were very helpful in terms of transport.”

“Why were they in an active war zone to begin with?”

“Mrs. Wollstonecraft had property in Spain or Portugal, I think.”

“Where?”

“I felt it impolitic to ask, since they were abandoning it for Lisbon, like everyone else running to hide behind Wellington’s fortifications. And, any road, I have a horror of appearing like Lady Catherine when asking people about their affairs. Demanding a widow explain what provisions her probably long dead husband made for her in terms of inherited property and what have you struck me as _very_ Lady Catherine.”

This satisfied Darcy; he said, “I by no means wish to denigrate the assistance rendered you by Miss Elizabeth and Mrs. Wollstonecraft, but the Bennets are not good _ton_. All five daughters are out and yet only the eldest seems to know how to behave. The middle girl is a prosy bluestocking— at least in that she had a good match with their ridiculous cousin, Mr. Collins— and the younger two are determined flirts, whose wild behavior is positively beyond the bounds of propriety. The mother is scarcely better than her daughters. What little conversation she has, when it is not insipid, is about what fine matches her daughters will someday make, despite their total lack of beauty, breeding, or education. She means to entrap a husband for each of them, with the inducement of merely fifty pounds per annum, and whatever eccentric Mrs. Wollstonecraft sees fit to gift them. Mr. Bennet does not check his family in any of their improprieties. In fact, he seems to derive a great deal of amusement from them.”

A little bewildered that such a family could produce Captain Bennet— clever, capable Captain Bennet, always slightly worried about the respectability of her sisters, with no interest in flirts or marriage— Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, “Where in London did you come across them, if they are such bad _ton_?”

“I didn't. I was at a shooting party in Hertfordshire.”

“Have you ever met Miss Elizabeth?”

“Only briefly.”

“She is very different from what you tell me of her family. Indeed, I do not know the last time I met a woman I admire more.”

Darcy turned to look at him, with disapproving surprise. “You don't?”

“No,” he said, trying to think up a way to frame his good opinion of a fellow officer in non-militaristic terms. “She is a very singular woman, I admit, but she manages to be both compassionate and clever, which I have found to be a rare combination. And there is a sweetness and archness to her manner I find very pleasing, and she is full of lively conversation.” Darcy did not look convinced. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know why it was important to him Darcy like Captain Bennet, but it was; he added, smilingly, “And it is very hard to think ill of anyone who has saved my life.”

“How?”

He tried to pick the least dramatic of these examples. “Saved me from falling to my death— reached out and grabbed me, with great strength of mind.”

“And great strength, it appears.”

“People are capable of absurd feats of strength in dangerous situations."

Darcy looked back at the box where Captain Bennet sat, looking very pretty in curls _a la greque_ and a rich green satin gown, lightly banded with embroidered ribbon about the sleeves and waist. She had apple-green jade at her ears and throat; Colonel Fitzwilliam would later be amused to discover her earrings and pendant were little carved dragons, rearing up on their back legs with wings folded.

“There is hardly a good feature on her face,” Darcy protested.

“Her eyes are very fine.”

“Fine eyes do not make up for so brown and weather-beaten a complexion. Does she go outdoors in all weathers?”

She did, and flew and fought in them too, but it did not do to mention it. “Spain is much sunnier than England. Come Darcy, you are fastidious indeed. I think Miss Elizabeth is extremely handsome.”

“There are more appropriate women for you to admire; I see I shall have to adjust your tastes before you do something imprudent,” Darcy said, attempting to tease. “I am glad you are come back from Spain, before you turned completely savage.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam knew Darcy's social skills were not of the best, and that Darcy was in a bad mood, but he felt too disgruntled to immediately forgive; at the interval he escaped to Captain Bennet’s box.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said warmly, glancing at her aunt. “I am glad to see you! This is my Aunt Gardiner. Aunt, this is Colonel Fitzwilliam, whom I have told you of.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed. “Ma’am, a pleasure.”

“I must claim the greater share of the pleasure, sir,” said Mrs. Gardiner. She was a very elegant woman, beautifully attired in the coquelicot silk Marjorie had declared was that season’s latest trend, and smiled at him kindly. “We were... worried for Lizzy, while she was abroad with Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and about how she would be received; perhaps more worried over the latter, to be quite honest. But Lizzy and her friend Miss Lucas both assured me of your extraordinary kindness to them.”

“Hardly kindness,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, flipping the tails of his coat out of the way, in order to sit. “And if it was extraordinary, then I am ashamed that should be the case, when all should react to... service abroad?” He glanced at Captain Bennet, to make sure this metaphor was apt; she nodded. “With the respect it rightfully commands. I have lost track of how much I owe your niece, ma’am.”

“It is a debt you have repaid many times over,” said Captain Bennet, “and, any road—” He smiled at this Roland-esque phrase and tone  “—I am told it is very vulgar to be speaking of debts while out in society like this. Oh! Uncle! This is Colonel Fitzwilliam. Colonel, my uncle Mr. Gardiner.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood and bowed; Mr. Gardiner attempted to do likewise, but was somewhat impeded by the refreshments he bore, and laughed. He was a good-humored fellow, in early middle-age, dressed with as much taste and elegance as his wife. They was a little fuss as everyone moved to help Mr. Gardiner at once, and then they settled down. Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “I have been meaning to call upon you, Ca—Miss Bennet, and to make the acquaintance of your family, but I have hardly had time to see all my own.”

Captain Bennet looked at him with faint worry. “You do look tired. You have for weeks.”

He hesitated and said, “I own it; I am tired. I am thinking of taking a fortnight’s leave, and going to stay with some relations, before the Prince Regent descends upon London. I hope that is not inconvenient.”

“Oh, of course not! You are only just recovered from Bussaco. I really do not think a fortnight's rest was enough before we had to travel back to England; indeed, I have felt the same.” She tilted her head to the side, thinking, and said, “I think I shall probably follow your example. I have not seen my sister Mary since I am come back; indeed, I have hardly seen my parents and other sisters, though they were kind enough to come up to London to see me.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked about the empty box, rather puzzled.

“They are at home this evening,” said Mr. Gardiner. “My sister, Lizzy’s mother, has... ah. That is, she requires time to rest her nerves. And my brother-in-law prefers an evening spent in a library to anything else.”

“My two younger sisters do not care for the opera,” said Elizabeth, “and my eldest sister Jane, good creature she is, knows how much I love music. She offered to stay home and watch my young cousins so that my aunt and uncle and I could still come this evening. You know, the more I think on it, the more I should very much like to take my parents and sisters to see Mary. We have not yet been all together as a family, this visit.”

“I think Mary would much appreciate it,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

“Can Wollstonecraft be spared from London?” Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced at her aunt and uncle. “That is—”

“We are well aware that Mrs. Wollstonecraft is eccentric and prefers to go by her last name alone,” said Mr. Gardiner, kindly. “You do not shock or offend us. And we know that Mrs. Wollstonecraft does not like to be parted from Lizzy. She was the same way with her... first companion, my eldest sister. Mrs. Wollstonecraft has let you go for fortnights on your own before, has she not, Lizzy?”

“Yes, but that was before I was....” She trailed off and then said, “But if Charlotte is with her and I write every day, she will not fret, and I do not think she will mind my going.” Captain Bennet grinned. She was enchantingly pretty when she grinned like that, her hair in loose curls, and her light figure draped in clinging green satin; Colonel Fitzwilliam knew he would begin to blush soon, if he kept looking at her, and turned to make himself agreeable to the Gardiners. They were well-mannered, well-educated people and with them, Colonel Fitzwilliam was well pleased.

He was better pleased, when he was able to leave London a few days earlier than anticipated.

“I have not been to Kent since we were driven out of it,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam to Julian, as they mounted their horses in the courtyard, and Marjorie was helped into the Darcy carriage. “I hope it shall be a peaceful sojourn. I am in sore need of a little peace.”

Julian smiled at him, with the lofty, superior air that had provoked most of their childhood scuffles. "Of course you shall find it in Kent."

He was quite wrong.


	8. In which Mr. Darcy discovers something very shocking indeed

The first few days at Rosings passed without incident— the usual combination of strolls through immaculately ordered gardens and beautiful parks, good dinners, and long monologues from Lady Catherine. The sense of relief Colonel Fitzwilliam felt in being away from London was enough to keep him tolerably cheerful through even through the long interrogations Lady Catherine called conversation.

However, the weeks of being on constant display had their toll; in the middle of Lady Catherine holding forth on more minutiae of Kentish life—the parson’s wife had a piano too grand for her husband’s income, a fact that had to be gone over for quite half an hour, even after it was determined that the piano was a wedding present from a rich and eccentric family friend the wife’s family could ill-afford to offend by refusing a gift—Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself nodding off.

Darcy helpfully drove his elbow into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s side.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sat up with a start and, at Lady Catherine’s turning to glare at him, hastily improvised, “Arabella! I just realized I have not yet been to see Arabella or Cousin Will. I got a very nice letter from Arabella about the repairs to Chatham, but have you more recent information, Lady Catherine?”

“I invited her to be part of our party, but she declined,” said Lady Catherine, not terrifically pleased with this. “Your younger sister may be the viscountess Pitt now, and may one day be Countess of Chatham, but that does not mean she is too grand to visit her relations, surely?”

The truth of it was, Lady Arabella, and her cousin-turned-husband, the viscount Pitt, heartily disliked Lady Catherine and avoided her whenever possible. The viscount and viscountess Pitt were both good-natured sorts, but of only average understanding, and with little to no talent for politics and not much patience for people who tried to foist them out of their quiet, settled country life. William, the viscount Pitt, had a bad stammer that kept him from public service. The stammer got worse with anxiety, and he was in so a constant state of that around Lady Catherine it took him a full five minutes to get out his how-d’ye-dos whenever he was at Rosings. Arabella did not care to be questioned on anything she had decided to do— ironically, a trait she shared with Lady Catherine— and so conversations between Lady Catherine and Lady Pitt tended to turn into bloodbaths over proposed floral arrangements.

“Oh, well,” said Julian, uncomfortably, “Chatham’s rather a mess, Lady Catherine. They couldn’t even leave to come down to London to see Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“And it is not a very easy journey for them to make,” added Marjorie, soothingly. “Lady Pitt is such a nervous traveller and is made so ill by the motions of any coach.”

“What nonsense,” said Lady Catherine. “My doctor has told Anne that regular airings in a phaeton, drawn by ponies, are the best thing for her health.”

Anne looked about as well as she ever did, which was ‘not very.’ The Darcys and Fitzwilliams took a moment to all look at their cousin, who gave no indication she was even aware they were in the same room as her.

“I will recommend Lady Pitt to acquire a pair of ponies and a phaeton. If she was in better health, she might have better luck in producing the fourth Earl of Chatham.”

“I wish Lady Catherine wouldn’t say such things about Arabella,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, later, when they were up in Darcy’s room, drinking port. “Cousin Will is very good to her of course, and would never reproach her for it, but Arabella reproaches herself so much on that score I hate to hear anyone else being unkind to her about it.”

“It happens sometimes, that cousins cannot have children together,” said Darcy. “I have noticed it in my stables; I daresay what applies to English thoroughbreds may well apply to our family.”

“Very true. The Hapsburgs have proved the dangers of what happens when there is no new blood for generations.” He gestured at his chin. “Jaws the size of shovels! And the Pitts certainly didn’t bring any beauty into the Fitzwilliam line. We had better stop here, while we’re merely plain and avoid getting to the point where we frighten young children when out in direct sunlight. Best to bring in new blood, I suppose?”

“Or not to interbreed any more,” said Darcy dryly.

Colonel Fitzwilliam affected a look of incredulity. “You do not mean to say that you shan’t marry Anne after all!”

“Lady Catherine declaring there is an engagement does not mean there actually is one,” said Darcy. “I am not sure I could bring myself to marry anyone named ‘Anne.’ I dislike the idea of having a wife with the same name as my mother.” They both acknowledged the discomfort of having to call a wife by one’s mother’s name in a moment of passion, Colonel Fitzwilliam a little more crudely than Darcy, who was not only the soberer of the two of them, but the more fastidious.

“There’s such a paucity of names in our family.”

Darcy grimaced. “I had an awful thought. If you married Georgiana—”

“ _No_ ,” he said, horrified. “She is my ward! I am nearly fifteen years older than her!”

“—as I said, an awful thought—but just think about what horrors you would inflict on your child over the baptismal font. Would your son be Darcy Fitzwilliam? I assume I would be godfather.”

“Well, the only sensible answer to that is call the brat, ‘Fitzwilliam Fitzwilliam.’”

“It still astonishes me that your parents did not name you ‘Pitt Fitzwilliam’ when they disliked a plain ‘William Fitzwilliam.’”

“Because ‘Richard William Fitzwilliam’ isn’t a terrible enough of a set of names for you? You know at Eton everyone would have called me ‘Pity’ or ‘Pits’ if not ‘Fitzpits.’ God. I never thought I would be grateful for Julian calling me ‘Fitzbilly’ when I arrived at Eton, but I just realized it kept me from being called ‘Fitzdick.’” He shuddered. “Not only are we cash poor, we’re name poor. Clearly the only answer is for the two of us to marry heiresses who can bring as many new names into the family as possible.”

“Speaking of ‘Fitzwilliam,’” said Darcy, pointing at a trunk by the door, “there seems to have been an error at the tailor’s. They accidentally made the clothes I ordered from them according to your pattern card, not mine. It’s the Fitzwilliam that throws everyone off.”

“Darcy,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, in some exasperation. It wasn’t like Darcy to lie, even to venture into the sort of white lie that allowed people to save face.

“It is my own fault,” said Darcy, “for I wrote just after you visited with news of Wickham, and in some distraction. The clothes have all been finished, and as it was my error, I do not see why the tailor should pay for my own folly. Besides, I have already sent him a draft from Coutt’s. Will you send your man to get the trunk from my rooms?”

“Only if you will tell me how much I owe you?”

“Nothing. As I said, it was my error.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam doubted extremely that this had been an unintentional error, rather than the equivalent of a cat dropping a dead mouse in one’s shoes, but he was yawning into his port and decided to leave it for tomorrow.

He rose late the next morning, too late to catch Darcy alone, and with only time enough to pour a cup of coffee down his throat before the rest of the party set off to shoot. Though Colonel Fitzwilliam was a lamentably poor fencer, he was a decent shot, and he was surprised to find how much he had improved by having had to accustom himself to shooting while on dragonback. It was the rule at Lady Catherine’s that the ladies shot with the men, as the invasion had caused her to add ‘sharpshooting’ to her notions of all the skills a woman truly needed in order to be accomplished. Marjorie ,of course, took to it very well; indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam suspected very strongly that even before the invasion, when Marjorie and Julian had gone out shooting, they had early established the pattern where Julian, after taking a shot himself, would load the gun and pass it to Marjorie, who would aim and fire herself, usually with more success than her husband.

Georgiana did not take to shooting. After trying her brother’s gun, she seemed much more inclined to play with the retrievers, patiently waiting for any downed birds, than trying to shoot again. Indeed, to Darcy she whispered that the gunpowder smoke made her sneeze and the recoil of the gun hurt her shoulder. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Darcy’s jokes and tips and lessons were not enough to get her over her initial distaste for shooting, especially when added to Lady Catherine’s bullying. (“Gently persuade” was the term used, but being “gently persuaded” by Lady Catherine was like being “lightly on fire,” i.e. an alarming event even in its least threatening state, and one that always delivered on its promise of swift escalation.) Georgiana found some orphaned kittens in a hedgerow, and promptly made them her excuse to go back. Darcy made noises about not giving Georgiana more pets, on top of all her other rescues, but still ended up bundling all the kittens in his greatcoat and carrying them back to Rosings.

Lady Catherine returned home after bagging two brace of pheasants and a partridge on her own, and taking all but one servant and two of the dogs with her. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not understand just how or when his aunt had become so keen a shot, but in seeing her try to turn Georgiana into an expert marksman, Colonel Fitzwilliam rather wished he had _her_ for a drill sergeant. His robins could have rivaled riflemen with Lady Catherine’s training.

“I do think Lady Catherine is somewhat right,” said Marjorie, as they strolled behind the beater and the remaining dogs. “Georgiana ought to know how to defend herself.”

“I could get a pistol for her, but she doesn’t seem to like shooting,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Perhaps you could teach her how to use a stick or something,” said Marjorie, musingly. “I saw some Chinese aviators used them to great effect.”

“I am not sure I could, however,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I know how to shoot and fence, and to deploy six hundred odd men and dragons in strategic formations to defeat an enemy. I would be happy to pass on any or all of these skills to Georgiana, but I am not sure she would take to any of them.”

The cry came up that they had found a nest of pheasants; the three Fitzwilliams loaded and awaited the beater.

“Kok-kok-kok!” exclaimed a pheasant, taking wing.

Julian and Colonel Fitzwilliam both aimed.

“Blast,” said Julian, his shot going wide.

“Got ‘im,” exclaimed Colonel Fitzwilliam, waving away the powder smoke. “There it is. Quick, pass the gun to Marjorie, there’s a second— come on, man, load! Damn you, load!”

This was said teasingly; Julian, with the unamused look of older siblings everywhere said, “Give a man a pair of epaulettes and he thinks he can order the world! Quiet down, sprat. Your elders are at work.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam set the butt of his rifle down on the ground and leaned it away from him, so that the smoke from the barrel did not drift into his face. “Mm-hm, ill-done work. Look at you, loading a Baker rifle without the leather patch! You lose all the accuracy the grooves give you by doing so—”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam?” someone called, in tones of considerable astonishment.

His heart leapt into his throat; he recognized the voice as Captain Bennet’s. He turned to see her, and was not quite able to hide his surprise and pleasure.

She wore a fawn-colored spencer with buttoned-down lapels, over which the yellow ruffles of her gown’s neckline spilled like a bouquet of daffodils. To this she had paired a straw bonnet with wide ivory ribbons tied in a skittish bow under her right ear, and brown half-boots and gloves. Colonel Fitzwilliam rather regretted he had chosen to dress in the rattiest of his civilian clothes to go shooting, and, feeling too lazy for a cravat or stock, had tied a spotted handkerchief (actually Julian’s handkerchief, part of the insignia of the Four Horse Club) tied about his throat. He had abandoned his hat somewhere, his hair was tumbled all about his forehead; and he felt that he looked rather more like a groom who had fallen off his horse than her counterpart in the Mixed Model Division. But still, she approached him smiling.

“Why, Bennet!” he exclaimed, unable to keep from grinning in response. “Miss Bennet, that is! What on earth are you doing in Kent? I thought you visiting family!”

“I could ask you the same! I thought you would be in Derbyshire.”

“Oh no, I am visiting my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, of Rosings Park— but I could have sworn your family was Hertfordshire?”

“Most of it is, but my sister Mary lives here at Huntsworth. I think I told you she married a Mr. Collins?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, in some surprise, “Oh good God, how did I not realize...? You told me he was a clergyman too. I hadn't any notion he was Lady Catherine's.”

“I hadn't any notion Lady Catherine was a Fitzwilliam!”

Julian and Marjorie had been watching this with interest; Majorie with gun upraised. Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to them, not entirely sure what to say, but Marjorie lowered her gun and said smoothly, “Miss Bennet! It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“But,” said Julian.

“We are now meeting for the first time,” said Marjorie.

“But she sounds—”

“For the first time Julian,” said Marjorie, in tones of chilled steel.

“Oh, er, right,” said Julian. He was not one to contradict his wife, if she told him something.

“Lord and Lady Matlock are not here,” said Marjorie, sweetly. “I regret that we cannot introduce you to them. We are the only members of the London contingent present.”

Captain Bennet’s tense expression eased.

“I am Lady Stornoway, and this is my husband, Lord Stornoway— Colonel Fitzwilliam’s elder brother.” Marjorie carried the conversation easily, talking of Kent and the weather, of the hunting, and concluding, “I daresay we shall see you soon. At the very least I shall send Colonel Fitzwilliam with a brace or two of pheasants or woodcocks to the Parsonage tomorrow, if that is convenient for you.”

“Your Ladyship is kindness itself,” said Captain Bennet, very fervently. She curtsied and moved off.

“I can’t help but think I know Miss Bennet from somewhere,” said Julian, after a minute.

Marjorie and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged a very speaking look.

 

***

 

To Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mixed pleasure and bemusement, Lady Catherine announced that she had a mind to have her parson and his family over for dinner that evening.

“Three of Mrs. Collins’s four sisters, and her parents, are presently visiting her,” Lady Catherine reported. “I have met Mr. and Mrs. Bennet—that is Mrs. Collins’s parents— but I have yet to meet all the sisters.”

“Oh, we saw one in the woods,” said Julian, vaguely.

“Which?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Julian had already gotten Miss Bennet’s identity confused once before and was not inclined to trust his judgement. “Very brown sort of girl.”

“I suppose that to be the second eldest, Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” said Lady Catherine. “I have not met her yet, but her mother informed me that she was companion to a family friend who had lately returned from Spain or Portugal.”

“We had better dress,” said Marjorie brightly, propelling her husband up the steps.

Colonel Fitzwilliam hastily washed and sorted through the trunk of clothes from Darcy. After exasperating his batman thoroughly, Colonel Fitzwilliam settled on a pair of faultlessly tailored white knee-breeches (which Lady Catherine required at her table, finding trousers of any kind distressingly working class), an embroidered ivory waistcoat, and a green tailcoat. He had, at first, been inclined towards one of his formal uniforms, but as Captain Bennet was in civilian dress, he decided he might as well be too. The fact that he had picked a coat close to the color of the Aerial Corps uniform meant nothing; it was just one of those jokes he sometimes had with himself.

Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled on the front of his coat, and reasoned to himself that really, wearing civilian clothes was just a favor to Darcy, who, after all, had been extraordinarily generous in giving him so extensive and expensive a present. It was really easier just to accept Darcy’s gifts. They came from a place of love and goodness, and Darcy was too stubborn a fellow to defy for very long. Colonel Fitzwilliam picked up a brush and tried to smooth back his light brown hair from his forehead, wondered if he shouldn’t bother since that way one could better see some of the still-healing scars from Bussaco, and gave it up as a bad job.

“No point in fussing; you are what you are,” he told his reflection, and quit his room.

Julian almost immediately made him feel better however, by saying, “Nice togs, Fitzbilly of Bond Street,” as they met in the hall. “Setting up as a dandy?”

“First I’d need some of those kerseymere whatcha-ma-call-its that so horrify mother. She calls them inexpressibles.”

“Oh! Pantaloons. Poodle Byng let me look at a pair of his the other week. They look like those overalls of yours—the ones you wear when riding in parade, only they loop under the foot instead of buttoning over the boot. Thought about getting a pair to please Marjorie but then I saw the Prince Regent sporting a pair.” He shuddered. “Not a forgiving garment!”

“Duly noted. I—Julian?” Colonel Fitzwiliam paused with one foot on the stairs.

Julian had paused on the landing and let out a low whistle.

The Bennets and Collinses had arrived in the vestibule, and perhaps the most beautiful woman Colonel Fitzwilliam had ever seen was graciously giving her cloak to the butler. She was a lovely blonde, voluptuous and pretty, with an expression of arresting sweetness. But still, Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself scanning the assemblage until he saw Captain Bennet.

She was wearing the same gown she had worn to the Opera and he liked it just as much. It brought out the rich, honeyed tones of her brown complexion, and, in the baser realms of attraction, Colonel Fitzwilliam could not help but notice what an admirable job the cut of the gown did in displaying Captain Bennet’s light, lovely figure to perfection.

“Aside from Marjorie, I’m not sure I’ve seen a prettier woman,” said Julian.

Colonel Fitzwilliam made a faint noise of agreement, eyes still on Captain Bennet, as she followed her sisters. This Miss Bennet, with her easy playfulness, her carefully controlled energy, her long skirts and beribboned curls, might have convinced any onlooker who had not risked their life beside her time and time again, that she was nothing more than the second daughter of a respectable country gentleman. She moved much more carefully in skirts than she did in trousers; Colonel Fitzwilliam found he missed the confident gracefulness with which she showed herself mistress of her dragon or any field of battle. “Shall we go down?”

They arrived in the drawing room shortly after the Bennets, and well after the rest of their party. Lady Catherine was already enthroned in her Louis XIV chair near the fire, the other Fitzwilliams lined up on various couches. Georgiana was nursing one of the kittens she had found earlier that day, with the other three gamboling about her feet, attacking her shoe ribbons. The youngest of the Miss Bennets let out a gasp of delight, causing Mr. Collins to whisper, “Cousin Catherine, please!”

“Mr. Collins, Mrs. Collins,” said Lady Catherine, graciously. “Allow me to introduce my family— my daughter Anne and her companion are known to you, but not to your family, as of yet. And if my other two nephews—”

“Here, Lady Catherine!” exclaimed Julian, as they walked around the mass of Bennets and Collinses. Julian dutifully took the hand extended to him and kissed the air above it; Colonel Fitzwilliam couldn’t help but catch Captain Bennet’s eye and quickly wink at her before taking his spot standing behind the divan Marjorie had claimed.

“My other nephew possesses a working pocket watch,” said Lady Catherine pointedly, looking with favor upon Darcy, who was amusedly allowing a kitten to climb up his trouser leg, “but these are my brother, the Earl of Matlock’s sons, Lord Stornoway, and Colonel Fitzwilliam.” The two of them bowed. “And this is my sister’s son, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.”

Darcy gently removed the kitten before standing and bowing. “It is a pleasure to see you all again.”

“Darcy, you know the Bennets already?” demanded Lady Catherine, quite annoyed.

“Yes. I met them last year.”

The Bennets, as a body, did not seem particularly thrilled to see him. Captain Bennet, in particular, had her arms crossed and was fighting a scowl, and the eldest woman, whom Colonel Fitzwilliam took to be Mrs. Bennet, said, in tones of rather tetchy politeness, “Mr. Darcy is known to us, ma’am, for his friend Mr. Bingley let the manor next to ours, Netherfield Park, last year, for the shooting.”

Lady Catherine looked annoyed to have been denied the joy to introducing them and said, “But you cannot know Lord Stornoway’s wife—” Marjorie regally inclined her head “—or my niece, my sister’s only daughter, Miss Darcy?”

They had not, and harmony was restored. Mr. Collins began in on a long paen on Lady Catherine’s goodness in receiving them only the day after his esteemed in-laws had come to witness his marital felicity, and the superior arrangement of his parsonage, all thanks to Lady Catherine’s advice. Mrs. Collins, sadly the plainest of all the Bennet girls, hung on Mr. Collins’s arm, swollen with pride.

“—would you not agree, my dear, that Lady Catherine’s advice on the sitting room has utterly transformed it?” asked Mr. Collins, to which Mrs. Collins nodded emphatically. “And as the Good Book says—” He paused, suddenly blank.

His wife, endeavoring to be a helpmeet, searched her mind for appropriate extracts and hastily offered, “In my father’s house there are many rooms?”

Julian and Anne, who were both of a literal cast of mind, turned to look at Mr. Bennet in inquiry, who was not quite sure what to make of this either, but enjoying the confusion more than anyone else.

“The room very much reminds sister Mary of home,” offered the blonde Miss Bennet.

“I have been remiss, Lady Catherine,” cried Mr. Collins, “in introducing you to all my fair cousins— or rather I should say, my sisters, for as their dear Mary has become Mrs. Collins, I am now... their brother.”

This was said as if revealing the web of intrigue that had lead a heroine to her dreadful fate in a Gothic novel. Colonel Fitzwilliam bit his lips to keep from laughing.

“This is Miss Jane Bennet, the eldest,” said Mr. Collins, gesturing to the blonde, “and then, in order, Miss Elizabeth, whom we call Lizzy, and Miss Catherine, whom we call Kitty.” All three ladies curtised. Colonel Fitzwilliam noticed that Captain Bennet kept an eye on Miss Jane Bennet, and tried to mirror her movements. “The youngest, Miss Lydia, is in London, supporting the bosom companion of her youth in her first Season as a married woman—”

“Her youth?” asked Lady Catherine, frowning. “She cannot have yet quitted it! Your wife only turned twenty this year.”

“My youngest girl is sixteen,” said Mrs. Bennet.

“And out already, when three of her elder sisters are not married? Singular, very singular.” Fortunately then, the gong rang and they proceeded into dinner. To Colonel Fitzwilliam’s bemusement and amusement, Mrs. Bennet had realized that Colonel Fitzwilliam was the only unattached gentleman at table... or at least the only one she thought of interest, for she did not like Mr. Darcy. She attached herself to him for the entirety of the meal. Colonel Fitzwilliam had seldom had the advantage of Darcy in anything, except in age, and rather enjoyed being flattered into revealing his suitability as a marriage prospect. Mrs. Bennet was roused to real interest of his stories of his service in the Peninsula, especially when they touched on Wellington. Like most women in England, Mrs. Bennet had a very passionate admiration for the nation’s most famous redcoat.

Captain Bennet replied to these stories in looks, as she could not say anything outright, and Colonel Fitzwilliam got the impression that his stories—which were mostly Captain Bennet’s as well—were ones that Mrs. Bennet had had no interest in hearing when Captain Bennet was the one telling them. Colonel Fitzwilliam was again surprised at the difference between Captain and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. A Miss Bennet could not be as free with her opinions and as assertive of her knowledge as a Captain, and so was forced into irony, into quiet little comments, and dry asides rather than having control of the conversation proper. He watched her during dinner, when he was not absorbed in entertaining her mother. Captain Bennet was sparkling and clever as ever, with the same mix of arch sweetness that had so captivated him on the Continent, but her wit and courage alike were more subtly displayed.

In perhaps the most amusing part of the dinner table conversation, Captain Bennet asked with an air of mock gravity about the rigors of military service and, when Lady Catherine intervened (sure that Colonel Fitzwilliam could not possibly get things right without her expert guidance), whether or not Lady Catherine had any advice to offer General Wellington from her time running her own militia. At several points Colonel Fitzwilliam had to hide behind his napkin, lest Lady Catherine see his grin, or hear the laughter he was not quite able to suppress.

Mr. Bennet, also in on the joke of Captain Bennet’s feigned ignorance of proper military procedure, watched in equal amusement. The eldest Miss Bennet tried to gently blunt any of her sister’s more pointed witticisms, and the others appeared to be in ignorance. Indeed, Mr. Collins was later overheard whispering that it had been very clever of dear Cousin Elizabeth to ask after Lady Catherine’s military service, for Her Ladyship prided herself on that particularly.

“Imagine that,” said Captain Bennet, drolly.

“Yes, difficult as it is to imagine a true lady suffering such privations, Lady Catherine is of the same mold as Bodeccia. I think she must be unique in Britain in that respect. Otherwise— really, can one imagine a properly brought up young woman taking to the battlefield? There is nothing more absurd.”

Captain Bennet caught Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eye, and they were both overcome with sudden coughing fits.

They had not an opportunity to converse with each other privatelythat evening but they were always part of the livelier conversations. Even Darcy grew interested and got sucked into a debate over what an accomplished woman really was.

“I may have judged Miss Bennet too peremptorily,” said Darcy, after the Bennets all left. “She is a very lively conversationalist. It was—“ sounding s little surprised at this himself “— a pleasure speaking with her. I am sorry for talking of her as I did at the Opera.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam knew few men who could admit fault and apologize as graciously as Darcy, and said, “I realize your fussing that evening had nothing to do with Miss Bennet, really; it was because....”

Darcy understood and said, “Yes, but it was unjust of me to take it out on a friend of yours. Especially one that had saved your life.”

To Colonel Fitzwilliam’s surprise, Darcy volunteered to come to the Parsonage the next day, with the promised brace of pheasants, and made a point of trying to be friendly and polite to Captain Bennet. Colonel Fitzwilliam knew and knew well that he had allowed himself to be too enraptured by Captain Bennet the evening previous and made a point of trying to become acquainted with all the other inhabitants.

The Collinses were a dull and prosy couple, Evangelists of the Gospel Of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. They hung on her every word with rapture, Mr. Collins devolving into ecstasies of gratitude and self-congratulations on having such a patroness and Mrs. Collins with a pedantic air and a supply of ineptly applied quotations. Colonel Fitzwilliam half expected Mrs. Collins to pull out a notebook where she had written down all of Lady Catherine’s speeches, as some women did with sermons.

The younger sister, Catherine, was a very fretful girl, in a continual pet over having been forced to come to Huntsford when her younger sister had been allowed to stay on in London, with a friend. As his own family feeling was very strong, and he was himself genuinely sad not to be able to see all his siblings in one place, he did not make for a very satisfying audience. The eldest sister, Jane, was a sweet-natured woman of about four or five and twenty, a little shy, but with perfectly correct manners. He enjoyed talking with her, for she was deft at intuiting the questions he had and subtly laid out just who knew about Captain Bennet and who didn’t at Huntsford, and what to or to not say about “Mrs.” Wollstonecraft. She always proved to be the best audience for his stories of service abroad, as she was eager for any information on her sister, who she saw so rarely and worried about so constantly.

Mrs. Bennet was a cheerful sort of woman, still very pretty, but with a very limited understanding. When faced with anything that defied her expectations of the world, she grew fretful. Mr. Bennet was a man of considerable intelligence, and it was evidently from him that Captain Bennet got her quick wit and sarcastic humor. Mr. Bennet and Colonel Fitzwiliam had a good long chat about _Don Quixote_ that at last interested Darcy enough to get him over his shyness. Indeed, he and Captain Bennet got into a long debate over the subplot of Marcela, the chaste shepherdess, who neither asked for nor liked devotion she inspired.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was not sure if this choice of subject was a warning to him, and decided to stick to Rosings for the time being. He was very surprised when three days later, Captain Bennet found him out on a walk and playfully scolded him for avoiding her.

“Avoiding you! Isn’t your family coming to dinner again tomorrow?”

“But you haven’t come to see me,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. She had on a different gown that day, a striped ivory muslin, with a pelisse of mulberry wool over it, and looked so fresh and pretty Colonel Fitzwilliam could not help but keep turning to look at her.

“I beg your pardon; I thought you might find me in the way, but I shall be happy to call upon the Parsonage this very morning if that is not the case.”

“Not at all! I love my family, but I think I shall run mad if I have only them for company— especially when I know I have so good a friend not a quarter-of-an-hour’s walk away. You really must come visit, for I cannot pay visits as Miss Bennet. I do not rightly understand why.”

He could not help but be touched by this shew of partiality.

“And on your last visit, you utterly neglected me,” teased Captain Bennet. “We scarcely spoke two words together! No doubt because you finally realized I had not been exaggerating my elder sister’s beauty.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam took a moment before responding to this, for he heard in it the faint traces of resentment he himself had always felt about Darcy’s good looks and Julian’s inheritance. Neither he nor Captain Bennet would ever act on a feeling they knew to be beneath them, and acknowledged it only in order to root it out for the unworthy feeling it was, and said, “It was less that, I confess, than avoiding your cousin.”

Captain Bennet snorted and said, “Oh Mr. Collins! He is... a character, is he not?”

“I wasn’t sure how much your cousin Mr. Collins knew about your service. Your elder sister, I knew, nursed you through all your sick leaves; she seemed the properest person to ask, and she was curious to hear my take on the division.”

Captain Bennet relaxed a little. “Oh, well! You guessed aright. Jane is the properest person for any question of propriety. I always stick close by her when I am home. I shouldn’t have favorites, but she is my favorite sister. All the others want such different things out of life than I do that it is... hard at times. You are lucky my youngest sister is not here, for she and I are always at loggerheads. I don’t suppose you were ever at loggerheads with any of your siblings.”

“Julian and I used to fight a lot as children,” he said, “but that was more along the lines of roughhousing. Miss Lydia is the youngest child, I think?”

“Yes, and her chief goal in life appears to be attending a ball or a party every single night. She does not read, she does not concern herself with the world— all she wants to be is married before the rest of her sisters, and she did not forgive Mary for being the first to marry. In fact, Lydia had such a fit of rage about coming to Kent my parents found it easier to let her remain in London than force her along.”

“Ah. My youngest sister, Lady Pitt, is like that. Trying to force her into anything is like trying to get a Regal Copper to move by pushing it.”

Captain Bennet looked a little worried and said, “I wish we had insisted. Lydia does not care at all about propriety. I am sure she is currently making herself foolish in London, in some wise or other. She has not written to any of us yet, so I have no notion what she is doing. All I know is that she is staying with a new-married girl of sixteen, just as silly as she is, a Mrs. Foster. Her husband is a colonel—”

“Oh? What branch of service?”

“Militia. You will roundly scold me now, I know, for entrusting my youngest sister to the company of _militia men_.”

The name ‘Colonel Foster’ seemed familiar but he could not presently recall why. “I, scold you! I’d like to see the fate of any man who tries to scold you. Acid to the face, I imagine.”

“Metaphorical first,” she agreed, smiling. “Then literal. But a swifter attack than one of Mt. Collins’s sermons. Heavens! How Mary can be happy I cannot tell you, but she’s never been prouder, happier, or smuger in her entire life. Well, I shan’t apologize for him. You have a disagreeable cousin too.”

He thought of Anne and sighed. The only time Anne de Bourgh had a word for anyone it was a cross one.

“But, no more on that. I am in a mood; my mother has commented on it particularly. I always am after having to go at it as purely a civilian more than three days. And I feel I am grown fat and lazy here. All I do is eat and talk.”

“Are we not walking?”

“Oh yes, I can usually escape for a long walk or two but it’s... it’s not flying. Or fighting. I fear I shall grow weak enough to lose to even Captain Crawford.”

“She’s hardly fencing for the fortnight of leave you took.”

Captain Bennet laughed. “No, only verbally. Did you hear the Prince Regent keeps inviting her to Carleton House?”

“There are few who didn’t. Hold a moment— I think....” Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed the part of the woods they were in, and abruptly walked towards a grove he knew had a long patch of level ground.

Captain Bennet followed him, light as a dryad returning to her tree. “Where are you taking me?”

“To a sort of a fencing piste,” he said, with a smile. “How sturdy is your parasol?”

Captain Bennet closed it and regarded it thoughtfully, and tried an experimental lunge and parry. “The weight’s similar enough. What do you have?”

He lifted up his walking stick.

“Oh, famous!” she exclaimed. “En garde, sir!”

It became their habit to meet and fence in the mornings, when all the others were still sleeping, or waking, or breaking their fasts. Colonel Fitzwilliam wondered what the servants would think of this— did they think that he was trying to deliberately seek out the pretty Miss Elizabeth for other reasons?— but as no one commented, or seemed to think he was doing anything but taking an early morning walk on his own while the rest of the household was not yet up, he continued to meet her.

However, one morning Darcy found them.

Darcy made enough noise that Captain Bennet quickly let down her skirts, and jammed her bonnet back on her head before he appeared. Colonel Fitzwilliam only managed to dive for his coat before Darcy appeared, and was inelegantly splayed on the ground, in his shirtsleeves when his cousin appeared.

Darcy looked suspiciously about the grove. “Miss Bennet. Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Captain Bennet curtsied. “Mr. Darcy.”

“I, uh,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying to think up a good excuse. “I saw a lost kitten.”

Captain Bennet shot him a look of mixed exasperation and incredulity.

Darcy asked, “And... lunged at it with your coat?”

“So I wouldn’t get clawed.” Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed himself off the dirt and brushed himself off. “It, ah. It didn’t work. I don’t know how Georgiana does it.”

“By not falling on top of any creature she is trying to capture,” said Darcy dryly.

The next morning they were a little more aware; Captain Bennet flung her parasol into the bushes, and raced to a tree with a relatively low branch. She leapt up, seizing the branch in her gloved hands and pulled herself up easily, swinging a leg up and over the branch. Colonel Fitzwilliam tried not to stare at the shapely half-booted ankle, and the expanse of stockinged calf exposed by this maneouver, reminding himself that this was nothing new. Captain Bennet’s formal dress uniform included pumps, knee-breeches, and white silk stockings, the same as his; but he could not help but notice that her garters were canary yellow, and the bare skin above them creamy pale, quite different from the honeyed tan of her face and arms. Rather treacley metaphors about milk and honey rose to mind. Captain Bennet swung her other leg over, balanced carefully on the branch, and began climbing up and into the canopy.

Colonel Fitzwilliam began attacking the bush Captain Bennet had put her parasol into, and was working on his lunge when Darcy came into the clearing.

“Hello,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, sparing him a distracted glance.

Darcy smiled and said, “At practice, colonel? I thought you were on holiday.”

“I am, in a manner of speaking. I am sparring with this bush, which cannot hit me back, rather than a person, who can. It makes for a nice change of pace.”

Darcy raised his own walking stick and said, “That cannot offer you much entertainment. Shall we go a round?”

“You just want to be able to say you beat a hero of the Peninsula.”

Darcy merely got into position and tapped Colonel Fitzwilliam’s walking stick with his own. Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned and obliged him. It was a difficult adjustment at first, fighting Darcy, for his style had not much in common with Captain Bennet’s. Darcy had few tells and lighting fast responses to attacks, and there was no fluidity to his movements, which often looked awkward. His strength and self-command characterized his style, rather than energy and agility. Still, Colonel Fitzwilliam was heartened to see that he had improved, and managed to keep Darcy engaged quite five minutes before being forced to surrender.

“Blast,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his walking stick flying out of his hand. “I yield, but I had really thought I was improving! I have been specially training with the aviators in Spain; they are all champion fencers.”

“You are improving,” said Darcy. “Usually I can disarm you far quicker. Have you been practicing every day out here?”

“Except when it is raining.”

Darcy picked up Colonel Fitzwilliam’s walking stick and handed it back. “Ah. I venture a guess that Miss Elizabeth found you fencing a bush in your shirtsleeves yesterday, not very long before I arrived.” He attempted to tease: “All this parade duty has given you a liking for showing off before the ladies.”

“I am not sure how much showing off it can be considering how quickly you knocked the weapon from my hand. But I did not know if it would perhaps reflect badly on Miss Elizabeth that she did not pretend not to see me, or that I did not immediately withdraw. She stayed to comment very wittily on my choice of fencing partner, among other things, which I cannot fault her for.”

“Nor I. It would take a very dull intellect to see you stabbing a bush and not wish to stay and ask questions.”

Darcy attempted to make merry over this after dinner, which Captain Bennet did not take kindly to, and they got into a long debate on the Amazons. Lady Catherine then treated them all to Her Thoughts on the Peninsular War. These were many, oddly informed, and impossible to check.

“Really, she’s plotted out the whole campaign for us,” Captain Bennet muttered, when they both rose to refresh their coffee, rather than listen to more.

“Just think,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam, “we could have been sitting here at Rosings this past year, instead of sweating to death in Spain, _and_ had more victories to boot, if only we’d listened to Lady Catherine.”

“She seems to have convinced herself _she_ thought up the lines of Torres Vedras,” Captain Bennet said, after a moment.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was moved at this to intervene, but his corrections and objections went unheard, as Lady Catherine tended to judge comments pertinent or not based on servility rather than accuracy.

“I don’t think you realize how large dragons are, Lady Catherine,” was the last comment he unwisely made, for the scorn heaped upon him for daring to doubt her was excessive indeed. Captain Bennet was almost shaking with the effort not to laugh, and indeed, had to mumble something vague about the water closet and nearly run from the room to keep from laughing in Lady Catherine’s face when the conversation moved onto the fighting abilities of Longwings.

“I could scarcely keep my countenance,” she said, the next morning. “I have never been so tempted in all my life to declare to respectable company that I am a dragon captain. But the way Lady Catherine goes on, she’ll merely tell me— rather sharply too— that it’s impossible for me to be a dragon captain, and please check my smart remarks!”

“How is Wollstonecraft?”

“Pining, poor lamb! Dragons get so blue-deviled without their captains. To tell the truth, I miss her myself. I keep thinking so wistfully of how Lady Catherine might react to her.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shuddered. “What a terrifying scenario.”

As it turned out, he had cause to experience this for himself.

 

***

 

Towards the middle of his second week of leave, when the inhabitants of the parsonage had just arrived to take dinner with them, an express dragon courier arrived. This courier, Captain James of Volatilus, was one well known to both of them and he moved towards Captain Bennet with every expression of familiarity. “Why, how convenient! I have orders for—”

Captain Bennet attempted to convey, through eyebrows alone, that she and Captain James had never met.

“—for Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said, turning and thrusting both letters at him. “Just Colonel Fitzwilliam! Him alone and no one else.”

“We are aware how military orders work,” said Darcy. “You have delivered your message; you may be on your way.”

“I have to return with a response,” said Captain James, a little desperately. “Which— ah— which are part of these orders. These orders for Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Lady Catherine was not terrifically pleased with this. She had worked enough with dragons to know she disliked them, and the men who worked with them. Their manners, she had once said at dinner, were all bad, and dragons and aviators alike neither understood nor preserved the dignity of rank. Still, she made an annoyed noise and allowed it.

Colonel Fitzwilliam broke open his orders and felt flummoxed. He and Captain Bennet were summoned to London; the Emperor of China, or rather, the Emperor of China’s dragon, had received a letter from Temeraire about the French invasion and Temeraire and Captain Laurence’s subsequent exile to Australia. The Emperor of China was Not Pleased. The Prince Regent very desperately needed to prove to the extremely disgruntled Chinese embassy that England was a humane country that would not be unnecessarily punitive towards a dragon because it was a dragon. The Mixed Model Division was one of their desperate proofs.

“Captain James, how long does it take you to get from here to London?”

“Half-an-hour. But Volly can go thirty knots without effort; he’s faster than almost any other dragon in the Corps. Lieutenant Lucas said she would bring Wollstonecraft for you and Ca— uh... your luggage, as soon as the crew’s had their dinner. So about seven or so. It’ll take her about an hour to get here.”

“Well?” Lady Catherine asked. “What did they write to you of? What did they command that has you leaving us so precipitously?”

He got as far as saying, “I have been ordered to cut short my furlough—” before Darcy said that he probably should not speak, as the aviator seemed to think the orders were top secret.

Darcy had done it to be helpful—he knew how much Colonel Fitzwilliam disliked Lady Catherine’s prying— but it did put him in rather a bind.

Captain Bennet grimaced expressively.

“When must you depart?” Lady Catherine demanded.

“The Longwing will arrive for me at eight-o-clock, according to Captain James’s calculations,” he said pointedly. “Lady Catherine, might I beg you to allow the Longwing to land in the park between Rosings and the parsonage? You will only have the dragon on your property five or ten minutes, at most.”

Lady Catherine exhaled sharply though her nose. “I suppose I must allow it. I shall have a tray sent up to you as you pack.” She turned to one of her footman. “See that this...” She eyed Captain James down her long nose with an air of distaste “... gentleman is fed and watered, and his beast likewise before they depart.”

Captain Bennet’s eyes widened; her parents struggled to hide their dismay— over her absence or the presence of her dragon, he could not say. Colonel Fitzwilliam excused himself from the company, to go pack his things, but hid the second set of orders in the book he had been perusing, and looked significantly at Captain Bennet. When he made a production of dropping his pocket watch at the door, he saw her pick up the book and quietly slide the letter into her lap. He also saw Darcy looking at her. He had begun to do so relatively often, but Colonel Fitzwilliam could not tell if it was Darcy trying to think up of counter arguments, or if Darcy was looking at her out of admiration, or merely absence of mind. Colonel Fitzwilliam was, for a moment, frozen with fear that he had inadvertantly betrayed Captain Bennet, but when he called out to Darcy, asking if he could have a word before he went up, he asked vaguely about how the horse he had brought with him to Kent might be sent up to London, then Darcy brought up the necessity of checking up on George Wickham, and concern about what Darcy might have seen was forgot. Colonel Fitzwilliam hastily changed into flying rig, ate his dinner, and was promptly banished from the room by his batman (“Your idea of packing, sir, is throwing everything into a chest, and having your china break into your stockings! You’d be of better help to me, sir, going to the clearing ahead of me.”).

He decided to go to the Parsonage instead, to see if he could be of any help to Captain Bennet, for he knew aviators had no dedicated servants to attend them, and did not think either the Bennets or the Collins’s were wealthy enough to have maids for each daughter of the house.

When he arrived at the Parsonage, Captain Bennet was alone and looking very cheerful to be in uniform once more. Or bits of it, at least; her coat and cravat were thrown over the back of a chair, on top of her flying leathers, with her sword leaning against the arm of the chair, when he knocked on the window of the garden-facing sitting room. “Fitz,” she exclaimed, opening the window, “The kitchen door is just to your left; ilI shall let you in there. Jane is upstairs packing my trunk for me, good soul that she is. Everyone else is still at Rosings.”

She let him in, still pulling pins out of her hair. “It is fun to playact as Miss Bennet, but I confess to being happiest as Captain Bennet. Care for a cuppa while I finish making myself into an aviator again? It’s taking me forever to get my hair back into a proper queue. Hair _a la grecque_ requires almost as much work to take down as to put up.”

“I quite liked your curls.”

“So did I! But the French would love them best of all, when they whipped into my eyes and blinded me long enough to miss seeing an attack.” They entered the sitting room and she gestured vaguely to a tea set, left among the detritus of what appeared to be several abandoned shawls and headdresses. Colonel Fitzwilliam moved a pile of ribbons off of a chair, feeling a little nostalgic for his childhood, and began pouring himself a cup.

“I am sorry for the mess, but my sisters and I have been using this as an impromptu dressing room; even with Lydia in London, the Parsonage bedrooms are too small to rig ourselves out in the grand toilette Lady Catherine desires.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam grimaced. “Rosings sometimes feels too small to rig myself out as Lady Catherine requires. She would be happier if I wore full dress uniform to dinner every evening.”

“Is _that_ why you are always in civilian get up?” Captain Bennet asked, tying her hair ribbon.

“Only partly,” he admitted. “Rosings is not my favorite place in the world, and Lady Catherine is not my favorite relation.”

“No, you astonish me!” She whipped a neckcloth off the back of a chair and looped it lazily about her throat, trying it in a truly awful knot. “Well, I am not sorry to leave either. Mary may be happy with her husband, but Cousin Collins must be the prosiest man in England. I—”

There came a knock on the front door.

“Your family?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked hopefully.

“No,” she replied. “The manservant is at Rosings, and the maid has the evening off—”

They heard the door open and Darcy call out, “Miss Bennet?”

“Mr. Darcy!” Captain Bennet exclaimed. “What is he doing here?”

“Miss Bennet?”

They heard footfalls on the staircase.

Captain Bennet looked down at herself in horror. She was booted, cravated, and trousered, with the unmistakable leather harness and carabiners of the aerial corps about waist and thighs—

Colonel Fitzwilliam sorted desperately through the piles of accoutrements on the table, hoping for an apron or a skirt of some kind, but found only a couple of shawls.

“They’ll do,” she said, grabbing them. She flung herself on the chaise-longue, wrapped one about her shoulders and threw the other over her legs. Colonel Fitzwilliam flung himself into the chair with her uniform jacket, but was surprised by Darcy’s entrance into the room before he could hide the sword.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, nodding to her.

“Forgive me for not rising,” she said, quickly, and rather breathlessly, trying to pull the shawl higher about her throat, so he would not see her neckcloth. “I am really feeling very unwell.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Darcy, looking honestly distressed. “You quit Rosings so hastily—”

“Yes, but I have my sister,” said Captain Bennet, a little desperately. “She went to... get me a blanket. Jane? _Jane!_ ”

“If there anything that can be done for your present relief I— Fitzwilliam?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had risen, trying to block the sword leaning on the arm of his chair, and said, “Er, hallo Darcy. I, uh— I saw there were lights in the Parsonage. It seemed more... comfortable to wait here instead of in a damp field.”

“While there was no servant in the house?” Darcy asked suspiciously.

“I was obliged to send a servant to the village for the doctor,” lied Captain Bennet. “But I... was... um—” She faked a coughing fit to gain time; Colonel Fitzwilliam took advantage of this to grab her sword and walk awkwardly over to the tea table with it behind his back. He managed to hide it under the tablecloth and be back with a cup of tea before Captain Bennet accidentally dislodged either of her shawls. 

“Thanks Fitz—“ then, catching herself “—ah, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Darcy, already deeply suspicious, seemed to come to some conclusion at this slip. His expression dark, he said, “Richard William Fitzwilliam, I did not expect this of you.”

“I cannot take anyone seriously after they speak that combination of names aloud,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, rubbing his forehead. “It didn’t work when my parents said it either. But alright. What did you not expect of me?”

“I do not think you are so lost to yourself and what is due not just to our family but to Miss Bennet’s station as a gentlewoman that you are eloping, but... to enter into a clandestine engagement like this! Have you no sense of propriety?”

Captain Bennet and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged mystified glances. Neither of them had expected this conclusion— though, thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, this made sense from Darcy’s perspective. Colonel Fitzwilliam had been so warm in Miss Bennet’s defense, had apparently known her for so long a time, had been meeting her in secret on walks, had been in his shirtsleeves before her, had been so attentive to her at dinners, had so obviously shared jokes with her, and this evening, had left her a note in a book before his hasty departure— why, there could only be one explanation for his being alone with her in the Parsonage, and her referring to him by nickname. He had either already proposed and asked for a private leave-taking, or was proposing now.

“ _What?_ ” asked Captain Bennet, bewildered.

“Do not tell me my cousin has not made you a very impetuous and ill-judged offer of marriage! I will not believe it.”

“Miss Bennet just refused my impetuous and ill-judged offer of marriage,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, deciding to just blunder madly down the escape route Darcy offered. “So... thank you for rubbing salt in this very new wound.”

Captain Bennet stared at him as if he was out of his senses, but this had its intended effect on Darcy. Darcy looked deeply embarrassed, and fussed with the cuffs of his shirt, and offered a halting apology, before saying. “But you must see that this is for the best.”

“Oh, must I?”

“How could you support a wife? What money have you to keep her? Where would she live? It was folly of you to think of it, especially when you will be leaving so soon for Spain.” Darcy turned to Captain Bennet, who still looked as if she did not believe the turn this evening had taken, and said, gently, “I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet; I did not mean to— I realize I have acted in a manner more warm than wise. I should have trusted in your good judgment.”

She turned and shouted, “ _JANE!_ ” with utter desperation out the hall.

This at least brought the sound of footsteps, but there was another knock on the door.

“Oh God,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Who else is come? Did you bring Georgiana along?”

“No—”

A clamor of voices, then into the room stormed Captain James, with the eldest Miss Bennet, out of breath and chasing him.

“Captain Bennet,” said Captain James, bursting into the room. “There you are, captain!”

Captain Bennet squeezed her eyes shut.

Captain James did not notice and ran over to her, thrusting a letter in her hands. “Midwingman Harrington, on one of the ferals— poor thing was exhausted, so I made her eat something in Rosings while I brought it to you, but she was terrified out of her wits, trying to get this note to you! Post haste for life, she said! Letter from Captain Crawford. Not orders, of course, gave yours to Colonel Fitz—” He turned to acknowledge Colonel Fitzwilliam, noticed Colonel Fitzwilliam had buried his face in his hands, and suddenly noticed the presence of a gaping civilian. “I, uh. Oops.”

“Oops indeed,” said Captain Bennet, despondently breaking open the letter.

“What,” asked Darcy, in tones of shocked indignation, “is the meaning of this?”

Jane Bennet, wheezing in the doorway, ticked a strand of blonde hair back into its ornate neo- Grecian arrangement, said, “I’m... I’m sure Captain James is just... playing a joke. He... he is referring to ... a nickname... given my sister by her... her friend Captain Crawford. She is an aviator. Captain Crawford, I mean.”  

Captain James was not a man noted for his cleverness. Neither was his dragon, Volly, who managed to nose open the window, from where he had been left in the garden. “Hello!” he said brightly, sticking his head in the room. “Captain Bennet, Woll... Wolly— she does not like when I call her Wolly, but her real name is so long. She is very sad you are gone away to Kent and she is very excited you—”

“Hush Volly!” Captain James said, running to the window and holding the jaws of his dragon shut. Volly looked startled, but did not fight; Captain James laughed weakly. “Ha... ha... he, uh. Volly is, uh. So... inventive.”

Darcy turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam looking really almost offended. “What the hell is going on here?”

Captain Bennet gasped and immediately flung her shawls aside.

“She’s wearing trousers!” Darcy exclaimed, in the same way someone else might have shouted, ‘She is naked!’ “Like— like an actress!”

“She has ears,” snapped Captain Bennet, striding to the window, and grabbing her uniform coat off a chair along the way, “and she is not wearing trousers like an actress. _She_ is wearing the uniform of the Aerial Corps like an _officer_ , which she _is_!”

“Lizzy, no!” exclaimed Miss Bennet.

“Jane, I haven’t time, Captain Crawford’s written some awful news about Lydia; we must get to London at once. We cannot lose a moment.”

Captain James said, awkwardly, “Captain Bennet, I’m dreadfully sorry, I know groundlings cut up stiff about female aviators.”

“I will forgive you,” she said, briskly pulling on her coat and buttoning it, “if you will do me the great favor of flying at once to Rosings and telling my father he must be ready to fly to London with me in half-an-hour.”

Volly looked up at Captain James, who was still holding his jaws shut. Captain James said, very relieved, “Of course— at once. Come on Volly!” Captain James managed to squeeze his not insubstantial person through the window and tumbled into his saddle. They were off in an instant.

To the astonishment of everyone (including, it seemed, Captain Bennet), she promptly burst into tears.

“Dammit!” she exclaimed, drying her eyes on the sleeve of her coat. Miss Bennet came over and held onto her sister tightly, then took the note. She turned pale as she read it. 

“I’m so sorry Jane, I—”

“No, no, you are right, we haven’t a moment to lose,” said Miss Bennet, looking ghostly white, but composed. “You did exactly as you ought and I am sure—” looking at both Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy with a look equal parts resolution and appeal “—that these gentlemen know that there is nothing in the least dishonorable about your service.”

“Excuse me,” said Darcy, with implacable resentment mingled with excruciating politesse, “but am I to understand that not only is Miss Bennet is so wholly lost to propriety that she goes about in trousers on a regular basis, but she— she is a female aviator? She lives not only amongst unmarried men, but _dragons_ ? And you—” turning to Colonel Fitzwilliam “—you not only knew this, but _worked with_ her?”

“Aye, and won Wellington all his victories thereby,” said Captain Bennet, raising her face from her sister’s shoulder.

“And you knew as well, Miss Bennet?”

“I am very proud of my sister,” said Miss Bennet, pale and obviously frightened, but striving for composure. “She does her duty for king and country.”

“I haven’t time for you, Mr. Darcy,” said Captain Bennet. “I have orders to be in London by nightfall in order to avert war with China, and there is a family crisis to somehow solve on top of that. Pray leave if you are so offended by the sight of my trousers. Jane, pray go pack bags for yourself and for father, and put on your warmest pelisse and gloves. The three of us must go to London on Wollstonecraft. I will do my best to come to you as soon as my duties are dispatched, but you and father must start looking for Lydia without me.” Miss Bennet nodded and departed.  

Darcy gaped at her. Captain Bennet ignored him and picked up her sword belt from the chair. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, where did you hide my sword?”

He pulled it out from under the table and passed it over.

Darcy glared at him.

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, tersely, “Darcy, for God’s sake, we haven’t the time for this and you don’t understand the situation at all!”

“Miss Bennet, I never imagined the total want of propriety displayed by your family to have reached so low as this,” Darcy exclaimed, ignoring Colonel Fitzwilliam. “To allow you to— no, to force you to comport yourself like this—”

Colonel Fitzwilliam began to protest, but Captain Bennet raised her hand, with the same authority she commanded in any battle.

“Sir,” she said, coolly, “it is _Captain_ Bennet. I would thank you to use my proper title, the one bestowed upon me by the British government in recognition of my abilities and my accomplishments.”

“Your accomplishments!”

She appeared to be getting really angry; before she had probably been too flustered, too upset by the news of her sister, but now she snapped, “Aye, my accomplishments! I know you have very set opinions on that sir, and that I do not meet them, but let me tell you something, _Mr. Darcy_ . I may not be worth a dance to you, but I am worth something to this country. I am captain of the Longwing Wollstonecraft, formation captain of the Mixed Model Division, one of the five female dragon captains in Britain, a veteran of the Nile, of Shoeburyness, of Talavera, and of Bussaco. I have served with distinction for over fifteen years.” She gestured to her chest full of medals as if underlining an important passage in a book. “I, sir, have been wearing this uniform and winning battles for my country since _you_ were in petticoats.”

There was no possible way that could be actually true, but Captain Bennet was too angry for mathematics, and Darcy too outraged to notice.

“Your parents were so lost to every proper feeling,” snarled Darcy, “to every virtue, that they put you in the Aerial Corps _as a child_?”

“I began my service when I was seven, like every other officer,” she declared, hotly, “and I do not take kindly to the insinuation that my parents—”

“It is not insinuation, but accusation,” he said, his expression thunderous. “Clearly they have no care for their daughters at all!”

“How dare you, sir?” Captain Bennet demanded, at the same time as Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed, “Come off it, Darcy, stop knocking on the Aerial Corps!”

Darcy turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam with the aspect of Jove about to smite the unworthy. “Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he asked, in tones of dangerous formality. “How long have you known that our country is so lost to propriety we demand women of supposedly gentle birth to serve as officers, in such a pit of libertinage as the Aerial Corps?”

“Darcy, all England knows there are female officers in the Aerial Corps! It is a truth universally acknowledged.”

“Ones born into the service! Not gentlemen’s daughters— not Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”

Captain Bennet corrected, again, and with mounting anger, “ _Captain_ Bennet!”

Darcy glared at her. “I see I was wiser than I knew, preventing Mr. Bingley from proposing to Miss Jane Bennet!”

Captain Bennet had been pushed past her limit. She yanked her glove from her belt and slapped Darcy across the face, hard enough to make Darcy stagger sideways. “I demand satisfaction!”

“ _What?_ ” demanded Darcy, confused and outraged.

“That is enough!” Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed, in his best battlefield bellow. “Captain Bennet, dueling is illegal for aviators! Darcy, for God’s sake stop talking about things you do not understand!”

Captain Bennet spat, “Illegal or not, I will not stand here and have this _civilian_ , who shut himself up in his grand estate in Derbyshire and turned away the militia when the French invaded, insults my character, my service, and my family! Do you expect me to just bite my tongue when he boasts about ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

“What is there to understand?” Darcy asked, at nearly the same time. “The situation seems perfectly clear to me! The Bennets were improper enough to thrust their _daughter_ into the most dangerous branch of the military service to make her live with libertines and fight alongside monsters! They deliberately chose to ruin their own daughter and call it patriotism. How could any man who cared for his dependents force his relation into scenes of such danger?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam loved Darcy better than any of his other relations, but was hard put to remember this. Though Darcy had been the taller and broader of the two for years, he was not expecting an attack, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was the stronger. Darcy found himself seized by the lapels and hauled off balance before he quite knew what was happening.

“For God’s sake _shut up_ ,” advised Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Captain Bennet is a war hero and I owe her my life ten times over. Are you going to listen now, or do I need to put you in a headlock like when we were children?”

Darcy was too startled to speak; Colonel Fitzwilliam decided that this was the closest they were going to get to agreement and turned to Captain Bennet. “Captain Bennet, I don't expect you to be silent, by I do expect you to revoke your challenge. Dueling is illegal for aviators for a reason. Think of the effect this will have on Wollstonecraft, if nothing else!”

“Do you think I would lose against _him_?” Captain Bennet demanded, indignant.

“No,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied impatiently, “but I do think that the Admiralty will look kindly upon an aviator murdering a civilian! Do you _want_ to be exiled to Australia like Mr. Laurence?” Darcy opened his mouth; Colonel Fitzwilliam shook him a little and said, “Darcy! Captain Bennet can beat me in a fencing bout within ten seconds. She's probably one of the best swordsmen on the Peninsula. You would not win. Now, will you sit down and listen to what I have to say?”

“I prefer to stand,” he said, coldly, and as a result Colonel Fitzwilliam was not gentle in releasing him. Darcy straightened his lapels like a cat cleaning itself after a fall, trying to pretend any temporary loss of dignity was intentional.

Captain Bennet stood with her arms folded, weight on her right leg, the fingers of her right hand drumming against her left bicep, in a state of barely contained agitation; she looked not only as if she would gladly kill Darcy, but as if she was more than capable of doing it and effectively hiding the body afterwards.

“Fine,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, tersely. “Since Elizabeth I’s time, there have been women in the British Aerial Corps. Captain Bennet is a part of this very long tradition, and is a credit to it. She entered into the service young, yes, but at the same age as almost all her fellow officers. Without her and her Longwing, right now we would all be speaking French and bowing to Napoleon; just as without that first Elizabeth and her Longwing, we would be speaking Spanish and bowing  to His Most Catholic Majesty. I have personally seen Captain Bennet in action. You may have missed it in the chaos of earlier, but she is my counterpart in the Mixed Model Division. There is no officer I trust or respect more. There is nothing dishonorable in her service.”

“And all this time you have been lying to me?” Darcy asked, with a great effort to appear calm.

“Given how brilliantly you reacted just now,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interrupted, “can you really blame me for failing to be explicit that Captain Bennet and Miss Bennet are the same person?”

Captain Bennet had picked up the note from Captain Crawford and said, suddenly, “Captain— Captain Wickham— oh God, Fitz, no wonder you shoved him up against that wall, I ought to have trusted you—”

“What?”

“He’s kidnapped my sister,” said Captain Bennet, in a hollow, hopeless tone of voice. “Lydia thought it an elopement. She left a note to that effect with her friend, Mrs. Foster— her husband is the Colonel of the Brighton militia— but a note from Captain Wickham came to my lodgings. I left Captain Crawford instructions to open all my official mail for me and it was from a captain—oh thank God she opened it! Unless I can meet Captain Wickham’s demands, he will ruin my sister.”

“What does he want?”

“Fifty thousand pounds by tomorrow evening," said Captain Bennet, her hands shaking enough to make the letter rattle. "Fifty thousand— that is the price the Admiralty puts on a Longwing egg! And I do not think I could lay my hands on ten!" She looked wildly from Colonel Fitzwilliam to Darcy and said, in a hardened tone, "This does not come as a surprise to you. What have you not told me?"

"For God's sake," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling his own temper flare. "Do neither of you realize that I do not happily keep secrets? I only do so to prevent damaging the reputations of women I care about. But— Darcy, you will have to forgive me for saying this— but I am not surprised, no. Wickham has done something very similar to this before, but in that particular case, it was to keep us quiet."

Darcy was in deep thought and said, after a moment, "I do not pretend to understand anything about a situation that is so clearly beyond my ken as the Aerial Corps, but that—in that, at least, I have unfortunate experience. Mr. Wickham ought to have been sent to Australia with Mr. Laurence, as a traitor to his country." He stood, shut the door and, after a moment's painful indecision, said, "Captain Bennet, you accused me of turning away the militia during the invasion. I take it Colonel Fitzwilliam never told you what really happened at the Battle of the Peaks?"

"No."

Darcy said, "I suppose I can rely upon your discretion. After all, you have successfully kept it secret that you are...." he gestured vaguely to her uniform. 

"You may be certain I will not be indiscreet about whatever you have to say, if it touches on Captain Wickham."

Darcy looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who gestured at him to go ahead and speak.

"Mr. Wickham," said Darcy, slowly, "for that is what he was then— he was... he was the son of my father's steward. We grew up together as boys. When the French invaded, it was natural I make him quartermaster of my militia. I knew, from our time together in Cambridge, that he had a... wild streak, shall we say, but he assured me that time was past. And, too, I had not known then that he had quit his study of the law to come join my militia because he had spent the three thousand pounds my father left him. I believed Mr. Wickham when he told me he had come to help me, out of loyalty and duty. But soon after joining up, he began to embezzle supplies and sell them to the French."

Captain Bennet had been staring at Darcy and now turned to look at Colonel Fitzwilliam with an air of dawning comprehension. "Oh God. He sent you plaster instead of flour at the Battle of the Peaks. Your colonel...."

"My colonel sent a note to that effect, which included orders for Darcy's militia to attack the French from behind. Wickham destroyed the note, and assured the colonel of the militia that it would be better to wait and hear from the regulars before advancing. If Mrs. Gowing hadn't ridden to Pemberly when she did, our entire regiment would have been lost. I knew it was Wickham. I knew he had been the one to sent us plaster, and, on the march back to Pemberly, I realized he must have been the person to destroy the note. I also realized...." He looked at Darcy. "I ought to have listened to Georgiana."

"What does...." Captain Bennet trailed off. "To protect women—oh God. What did Mr. Wickham do to Miss Darcy?"

"I should first explain," said Darcy, stiffly, "that Georgiana suspected long before Colonel Fitzwilliam or myself. She was learning to be a housekeeper; she occupied herself with supplying the militia and my cousin's regiment as if they were part of her household. She told me something was not right, and I dismissed it as nerves, God forgive me. She told Colonel Fitzwilliam."

"I watched Wickham at his duties for a day or two, but we had to give battle at the Peaks," said Colonel Fitzwilliam. "So I thought Georgiana was just making mistakes in her arithmetic. Wickham didn’t want to take chances all the same. I've no doubt he sent the plaster along with me in the hopes that if the French did not kill me immediately, this would certainly ease things along."

"She told Colonel Colthurst, as well, who was then the colonel of the Robins," continued on Darcy, grimly. "He did not believe her. So Georgiana set about trying to get proof. She obtained it and, after hearing what report the regulars had to give of the Battle of the Peaks, confronted Mr. Wickham in the front parlor." Darcy paused a moment, struggled against emotion, and then said, in a rougher voice, "He had been kind to her as a child. She did not want to believe he had done this on purpose. She wished to give him a chance to explain himself. Instead he—"

"No," said Captain Bennet, sitting down heavily into a chair.

"He didn't," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, quickly. "I was looking for Mr. Wickham, and Darcy was with me. We found him before—" He closed his eyes and exhaled. "He had torn her gown and had her trapped, with his arm about her throat. Darcy and I locked the door behind us but he was by another, that led to the side hall. Pemberly was filled. If he pushed her through the door, in the state she was in, she would be immediately seen, and everyone would believe she had been ruined."

"In exchange for letting Georgiana go, and for remaining silent, we, in turn, would remain silent." Darcy stared fixedly at the floor. "I am deeply ashamed that the situation got to that point— to the point where my sister, my thirteen-year-old sister, was put in such danger because of my mismanagement. We agreed to it. Mr. Wickham cast all the proof into the fire, as soon as he let go of Georgiana. Colonel Fitzwilliam was good enough to try and salvage some, but he was too late." Then, with a hint of a smile. "He did manage to punch Mr. Wickham in the face. He was not too late for that."

"We marched out of Pemberly as soon as proper supplies could be got," said Colonel Fitzwilliam. "When we got to the coast, Mr. Wickham vanished and, I confess, I did not wish to look for him. I hoped he would be shot as a deserter. He fell in with some smugglers instead. I should have kept a better eye on him."

Captain Bennet stared at them in mute astonishment; then the ground shook, and she stood with a mechanic, "Wollstonecraft is here. I...." She looked between the two of them, eyes red-rimmed. "I am so sorry. The words are not enough. I am sorry. And this is what he will do to Lydia...."

"I ought to have told you the story in full," said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

"I see why you didn't," said Captain Bennet, then, turning warily to Mr. Darcy said, "Sir, I rescind my challenge, and I apologize. I still think you were very wrong to break up my sister and your friend, but I— I think I understand why you had such a violent reaction to my being in a branch of the service known for libertinage. I can assure you, however, that no man has ever forced me to do anything, which is more than most women can say, and no man ever will. I can defend myself." 

Darcy bowed. 

"Bennet," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, full of empathy towards her, and anger towards himself, “if there is anything at all I can do to help you, I will."

She grasped his hand and looked her gratitude, before picking up her goggles from the mess on the table. "Can you help Jane carry her things out to the field?"

This he did with alacrity, Darcy following silently behind. They arrived in time to see Lieutenant Lucas lightly jumping down from Wollstonecraft's back with a, "Well, these are some very pretty woods and lands indeed. I daresay it would be easy to learn to be fond of them."

Captain Bennet had been hugging Wollstonecraft's snout and peeled away to embrace Lieutenant Lucas.

"I missed you too," said Lieutenant Lucas wryly, "but there are some people coming from the great house; you had best go aloft. Hello there, is that Miss Bennet?"

"Lieutenant Lucas, hello," said Miss Bennet, in a strained tone. "I am very sorry for this, but my father and I must come along and sit in the tent. Lydia is— is unwell."

Wollstonecraft said, "I hope it is not very serious."

"It is," said Captain Bennet.

"Of course you will wish to take Miss Bennet, in such a case," said Lieutenant Lucas. "Let me give you a hand up." With Captain Bennet pulling from above and Lieutenant Lucas pushing from below, she managed to awkwardly scramble up. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam put a hand to the harness before he heard Lady Catherine say, in her most unamused tones, "Pray, what sort of beast is this?"

Wollstonecraft swiveled her head about so that Lady Catherine and all her party could be seen. Mr. Bennet walked past her and, patting Wollstonecraft on the snout, put his hand to the rigging. Both his daughters pulled him up. 

"I am a Longwing," said Wollstonecraft, coolly. "Pray, what sort of beast are you?"

"I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

"I have never heard of such a breed," said Wollstonecraft. 

Lady Catherine was unsure whether or not to be insulted, and Mr. Collins hastened into the breech, providing Lady Catherine's lineage with an exactitude Colonel Fitzwilliam himself could not supply. He went over to embrace his family a final time, holding particularly tight to Georgiana. She held him, but was confused at this show and said, "Richard, you are not going to Spain, are you?"

"No, Georgiana," he said, kissing the top of her head. "I'm just— you deserve a much better guardian than me."

She tried to joke, "I have my brother," but seeing he was really distressed said, "You deserve a better ward than me."

"Georgiana, you didn't fail us; Darcy and I— we failed you," said Colonel Fitzwilliam. "The only people in the wrong in that room were the men. You were completely innocent. I have tried to say it so many times, but I suppose plain soldier is best: it was not your fault. I need to know that you know that— it was not your fault."

Georgiana burst into tears and held onto him; Colonel Fitzwilliam gently extracted himself and passed her over to Marjorie. 

"I'll handle this," said Marjorie, patting Georgiana on the shoulder. "Go. And send word if you need us."

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded and walked over to where Lieutenant Lucas was regarding Mr. Collins with a horrified fascination. 

"Alright there, Lieutenant Lucas?"

She shook herself out of her stupor. "I— yes. I had the oddest sensation. Someone walking over my grave, I suppose, but I was trying to imagine being married to such a man, and it...." She shuddered. "Thank God for the Corps."

"Let me tell you, Miss Longwing," said Lady Catherine, holding up a hand to halt Mr. Collins mid-sentence, "your landings leave much to me desired. The very foundations of Rosings shook, and half the dishes slid off my table."

"Then your house must not be a very good one," said Wollstonecraft. 

"I demand to speak to your captain."

"I don't think I shall let you," said Wollstonecraft. "You strike me as a very ill-mannered person, and I do not want you troubling my captain."

Darcy had been lost in thought, and started when Colonel Fitzwilliam clasped him on the shoulder. 

"Safe travels," said Darcy automatically, then: "Richard— is it our fault, that Wickham was free to do this again?"

"I cannot help but feel that it is," said Colonel Fitzwilliam. 


	9. In which Wickham's dastardly plans are foiled

On the flight over, Captain and Miss Bennet acquainted their father with the particulars of what had happened, and Mr. Bennet replied to this with, “I am not sure I would have put so high a price on Lydia. I wonder if she set the amount herself.”

It was not really any kind of an appropriate response, but Colonel Fitzwilliam was well enough acquainted with army humor to know how irresistible it was to joke in the face of imminent disaster. Captain Bennet did not see it in this light, and strode out of the tent to fling herself about Wollstonecraft’s back; snapping at her midwingmen for minor infractions and relentlessly quizzing Lieutenant Alleyene on their progress to London.

Lieutenant Lucas turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was by her, at Wollstonecraft’s neck, and said, “I’m sure you overheard all that.”

“I was there when the news arrived,” he admitted.

“Even so,” said Lieutenant Lucas, looking shrewdly at him, “the news doesn’t seem to have surprised you.”

“Captain Wickham tried something very similar before,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

It was dark aloft; the lanterns they had strung up along the guideropes crossing Wollstonecraft’s back scattered their light as a dancer might scatter rose petals— in long arcs, at random. One lit up Lieutenant Lucas’s face at that moment, in a moment of sudden understanding.

“What happened to her?” asked Lieutenant Lucas.

“We caught him in time, and hushed it up.”

“That woman who lives near the covert—”

“Mrs. Younge.”

“Was she...?”

“No, she was the governess to the young lady in question.”

Lieutenant Lucas observed him quietly and said, “Why did you not say anything before now? Why did you not....”

“Why didn’t I say anything at the time? That is easy— or I thought it easy at the time. The blame would fall upon the young lady. I did what I thought was possible at the time.”

“Which was?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed. “Punching Mr. Wickham in the face and marching him out of Pemberley to Nottinghamshire. I assumed he’d been killed when we were reassigned to the coast, or had deserted and would soon be killed for that. Then....” He shook his head. “He was gone, and England was in peril, and then I was injured and then I was to Spain. When I saw him again at Brighton, it was the first time in years....”

Lieutenant Lucas regarded him steadily. “I’m not sure I would have done any different.”

“High praise,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“From me, it is.”

“But,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, with a wry smile, “you said you were not sure— which, in my family at least, usually implies that you _might_ have done something different.”

Lieutenant Lucas did not deny it but said, by way of explanation, “You’re a man. What is more, you are a white man of privilege. You are not used to having checks on your power. You do not know how a woman like me must think and plan, if she is to survive. But this speculation is of no material use at present. The situation is this: Captain Wickham has kidnapped my captain’s youngest sister and has demanded fifty thousand pounds for her. I suppose Captain Wickham believes that all dragons have hoards, which is not the case. Captain Bennet has no way of laying her hands on such a sum. When this is discovered, Miss Lydia will be ruined, and it is very likely that Captain Bennet will be exposed. Her family will be pariahs, all of them. Well, perhaps not the married sister, if she casts off the rest of her family.” Then, in a lower voice, “So will mine. If Captain Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet are found to be the same person, it is very likely everyone will realize Lieutenant Charlotte Lucas and Miss Charlotte Lucas are the same person as well. My own sisters—” She broke off and shook her head, like a dog trying to rid itself of mud. “No. That shall not happen. We shall merely have to find Mr. Wickham. Can you set one of your men to watching Mrs. Younge’s house?”

“I shall.”

Lieutenant Gupta, the third lieutenant, called out, “I see London!”

“Prepare for landing,” Captain Bennet bellowed.

When they landed, Wollstonecraft said, “Colonel Fitzwilliam, might I have a word with you?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had not known he was still capable of shock, but, as it turned out, he was. “I, uh... certainly? Let me just put on my dress uniform.”

This was speedily accomplished. Colonel Fitzwilliam then dispatched his batman to the public house across the street from Mrs. Younge’s boarding house, with three pounds in small coin and an order to make himself agreeable to any of Mrs. Younge’s servants he might find there. When Colonel Fitzwilliam emerged from Captain Wentworth’s rooms, where he had been dressing, Wollstonecraft was far apart from the other dragons, curled as small as possible beneath the window where Captain Bennet’s voice could be indistinctly heard, overlapping with her father and sister’s.

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not feel the usual, instinctive stir of terror he had when facing a large dragon on his own. He was not sure why, for he had never been alone with Wollstonecraft before, but put it down to the absurdity of seeing a dragon try to act as a dog might, waiting for its master.

“Wollstonecraft,” he said, and, after a moment’s hesitation, bowed.

The Longwing swung its head about and lowered it, so that it could better look down at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I heard,” it said abruptly, “what Captain Bennet told her sire and what you told Lieutenant Lucas. My captain’s littermate— she has been kidnapped, and will not be returned if my captain does not give this Captain Wickham a vast deal of treasure?”

“That is true.”

Wollstonecraft huffed. Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed her bone spurs with worry.

“That is outrageous,” said Wollstonecraft. “I understand wanting treasure and having to be awful if one does not have the skill to come by it in the normal way, but to steal a hatchling from the breeding grounds like that— why, no dragon would ever do anything so monstrous!”

“They wouldn’t?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked in some confusion.

“No,” said Wollstonecraft contemptuously. “We do not barter our young as you seem to; we have respect for their time to grow. Nor do we allow them to breed before they are fully mature, which is what Mr. Bennet fears. I heard him say so just now.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself trying to shush a dragon.

“We should hunt down this Wickham character,” said Wollstonecraft indignantly.

“That is what Lieutenant Lucas and I are trying to do,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But pray, do not—”

“Do you think I cannot control my acid?” Wollstonecraft asked, tone dripping with disdain. “This is the problem with humans, when they are not properly brought up to understand dragons. You think us all entirely unable to understand how delicate you are, how short-lived you are, how easily we could injure you. You have seen the lengths to which we all of us have gone to defend our captains and crews, and you think I would ever injure you, or allow anything to happen to you if I could prevent it?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know what to say to this.

Wollstonecraft said, after a moment, “I have known Lizzy since she was scarcely out of the egg. She was so little a thing. But so fearless.” Wollstonecraft raised her head, looking into the high window of Captain Bennet’s room. “She is still that. Small for a human, I think. She is smaller than Bess, though now she is full grown. And she is afraid.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was strangely moved by this, by the obvious care Wollstonecraft had for her captain; and by the unprecedented idea that Captain Bennet was afraid.

“I do not pretend to understand why she is afraid this Captain Wickham will reveal who she is, for my captain is my captain, whether she is in trousers or a gown. But she seems to think herself an entirely different creature depending on what rig she has put on her.”

“Society views her as such,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Would it be so very bad if society was disabused of this notion? They always value her when they know what she is capable of.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam hesitated and said, “It is monstrous unjust, I know. Illogical to boot. But I’m afraid it would have very negative consequences for her sisters.”

“If I understood how your society worked, I would fix it for her,” said Wollstonecraft, stiffly. “But you do; and you and Lieutenant Lucas undertake to hunt down this man— you must let me be of help if I may. There is nothing I would not do for my captain.”

Captain Harville came limping out, asking if he was ready to leave, and Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed to this, saying only to Wollstonecraft, “I will do what I can, I promise.”

Wollstonecraft inclined her head.

In her quiet and reticence, in her disdain for those who did not behave according to her standards, and in her fearsome loyalty to those she loved, she reminded him of his cousin Darcy. Musingly, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Harville— the bond between dragon and Captain is very intense, is it not?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “The wonder of it is that dragons are such large, long-lived creatures, and yet they devote themselves to us. My wife says we are like lap dogs to them, but it is more than that. I have no friend truer than Attia, nor shall I ever.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not have long to think of this, for they were very soon at Carleton House and the Chinese diplomats were Not Happy. Their honor guard of entirely female officers (whose dragons outside were better outfitted than any division in England), were even less so. The British were falling over themselves to make these two sets of people less unhappy.

They were not succeeding.

The Prime Minister, the Honorable Spencer Percival, who had been a protege of William Pitt the Younger, and who Colonel Fitzwilliam had known since childhood, was all that was polite and diplomatic, but was also well aware that his model offerings as to the improved state of human-dragon relations in England were not performing up to standard. The various infantry and aerial corps officers could not be shaken out of the nervous, defensive herd they had formed, like recalcitrant sheep, despite the number of Foreign Office employees and translators going about as overworked collies, trying to steer them into better order. Colonel Fitzwilliam knew this was partly his own fault. He was distracted and obviously tense, and his officers had always looked to him for clues of how bad a situation really was. They were now all terrified, and certain, by his manner, they would soon be at war with China.

Captain Bennet was in a terribly foul humor. Her officers all had some inkling of what had happened to her and were equally upset. Only Captain Harville was relatively calm. Captain Wentworth was furious, outraged at Wickham’s perfidiousness; Captain Benwick murderous at the idea of an innocent in so awful a situation; Captain Crawford brittle and out-of-sorts. She kept muttering to herself, ‘fifty thousand pounds or its equivalent,’ as if through repetition she might conjure a fortune from the air.

Mr. Percival took Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Benenet aside as they were all lining up to go into a very late dinner. “Whatever is the matter? I know your furlows were cut short, but we all must make sacrifices in wartime.”

“I do not resent that, sir,” said Captain Bennet shortly. “I assure you, I am well aware of my duties and will fulfill them to the best of my abilities; even when others do not.” She pressed her lips together and glared at where the Prince Regent was trying, with expansive bonhemie, to offer a pinch of snuff to the Chinese Ambassador Extraordinary.

Colonel Fitzwilliam struggled to hide his distaste as well.

“The Prince Regent is still our regent,” said Mr. Percival. “We have no choice but to work with him, no matter what our personal politics and beliefs may be.” Colonel Fitzwilliam recalled that Mr. Perceval had served as legal counsel to Princess Caroline— the Prince Regent’s estranged wife— during the “delicate investigation” that the Prince Regent had hoped would lead to a divorce. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, I know I need not beg you to recollect your duty, but in memory of your uncle, Mr. Pitt— God rest his soul— will you tell me why you and Captain Bennet apparently cannot work with our monarch?”

Mr. Perceval was a small, slight, pale man, of a devoted Evangelical bent, and though a very workmanlike Prime Minister, everything he did lead to unpopular consequences. He declared himself a follower of Pitt and was therefore disliked by both Whig and Tory; indeed, he was still serving as his own chancellor, as the six people he had approached to do the job had turned him down. Colonel Fitzwilliam always felt vaguely sorry for him, but to confide in a man so haunted by political failure—

All of a sudden, a plan unfurled in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mind, like a cat waking up and stretching. What was one a black blob was now a knowable, familiar beast.

“Ask the Prince Regent how his favorite opium dealer is doing, Mr. Perceval,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, in the pleasantest tones he could manage.

Mr. Perceval stared at them. “What?” Then, in tones of horror, “Oh no, no, no. We are doomed before we ever begin if— no. The Chinese have made it very clear that our traffic in the opium trade is our greatest offense against them— perhaps second only to this— what do you know?”

Captain Bennet turned to look at Colonel Fitzwilliam, with dawning hope.

“A certain Captain Wickham,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, still pleasantly, “has been supplying opium to the Prince Regent for some time now. I do not pretend to know how long or in what quantities, but I am sure if you applied to the Foreign Office, they could give you a much better idea of his network. I have no doubt it extends well into China.” Then, seeing Mr. Perceval’s look of almost comic dismay, Colonel Fitzwilliam gently pressed, “Captain Bennet and I will do all we can, but we do feel that if this is not addressed, nothing we do will be of any use, and we ourselves do not have the authority to take on—”

“No... no, of course not,” said Mr. Perceval, gesturing weakly to a secretary. “I... thank you, colonel. And you also, Captain. I was not aware— oh God. Someone fetch me the Earl of Mornington, please.”

Captain Bennet looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam with the aspect of one who has been thrown a rope to a rescue boat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I’m still working this out as I go.”

“I can thank you for trying to find out where Wickham is—which is what I assume you’re doing.”

“It is, in part.”

“In part?”

“I’m trying to provide cover,” he said. “Another sling, of sorts. Though I’m not entirely sure if it’ll work out as I hope just yet— though hold a moment, here comes Mr. Perceval again.”

Mr. Perceval gently steered Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet towards where the Prince Regent and Lord Mornington were talking in low voices. “Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Mr. Perceval, in a tone of aggrieved politeness, “tells me, _Your Highness_ , that one of your intimates is _an opium dealer_ . Lord Mornington, will you kindly explain to His Highness just _why_ it is so very bad an idea to have an _opium dealer_ about when the Chinese ambassador extraordinary is already _extremely displeased_?”

Lord Mornington had not the tactical brilliance of his younger brother, the Duke of Wellington, but he did have a diplomatic air and considerable charm. He turned to the Prince Regent and said, apologetically, “Sire, you know and I know that there’s nothing wrong with a little laudanum now and then, but I am afraid that the Chinese do not see it that way. Their pleasures are very different from ours, you know. You have only to listen to their music to hear it.”

The Prince Regent nodded at this— carefully, though, so as not to disturb the high folds of cravat that disguised his double chin.

“As I mentioned, Your Highness,” said Lord Mornington, “the Chinese are... particular in their notions of right. We must make great allowance, considering what power is at their disposal. With our forces so spread, if they decided to side with the French....” He trailed off delicately.

“Say no more, my lord,” said the Prince Regent, with a shudder.

Mr. Perceval cleared his throat. “Then perhaps you might dismiss Captain...?”

“Captain Wickham,” supplied Captain Bennet, in a low, angry voice.

“—might dismiss him from your service, Your Highness?”

“I dismissed the fellow from my service yesterday,” said the Prince Regent, looking relieved. “Captain Wickham’s pockets were decidedly to let.”

‘And how much did you owe him, Your Royal Highness?’ Colonel Fitzwilliam wished to ask, but did not.

“We discovered it after one of my equerries caught him _cheating at cards._ ” The Prince Regent lowered his voice, as if this was the worst accusation he could lay against any man. “He owed some decidedly unpleasant people, from whom he purchased opium, a great deal of money. _Fifty thousand pounds_ , he owes them!”

The amount started to make sense.

“—and really, after all the trouble we went through not five years ago, with HMD Temeraire, I would not do anything to offend the Chinese again.”

The Earl of Mornington took Colonel Fitzwilliam aside and said, “My brother Arthur said you were a good man to rely upon in a crisis, and you know my brother. He is very scant with his praise. I am inclined to believe him. This.. Captain Wickham... is not a crisis... yet. But opium dealer to the Prince Regent, pockets to let— most likely _very_ disgruntled and possibly— well, _probably_ bent on revenge... he seems very likely to become one. Once this dinner is over, might I have your assurance that you will... see to this problem?”

“Yes,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “but I will need—”

“Whatever you need, just ask my secretary,” said Lord Mornington. “You’ve _carte blanche_ here, so long as you keep it quiet. If it comes to anyone’s attention, we’ll have to say he seduced your mistress or something.”

“Cheated at cards,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, hastily, well aware that Captain Bennet was within hearing distance. “Might as well keep it close to the truth, or as close to it as we can as possible. I will need Captain Bennet’s assistance— her and her dragon.”

Lord Mornington quickly agreed to this.

Dinner was no worse than usual, merely much slower, as they relied upon translators for both questions and answers. With the promise of immediate action, Captain Bennet was able to get over her anger and go back to her usual sparkle and gregariousness. She charmed the female dragon captains, and they soon fell into a strange patois of a couple of established and oft-repeated words in English and Mandarin, much supplemented by miming. Colonel Fitzwilliam realized that he best served the government’s purposes by showing deference to Captain Bennet and did so. All the while he thought on The Problem of Captain Wickham.

It did not occur to him that this was perhaps not his problem— nor, when they rushed from Carleton House back to the covert, did it really occur to Captain Bennet that Colonel Fitzwilliam should not be involved. This heartened and somehow bemused him, but he put this idea aside for thorough examination later, when he had more time. When they were all waiting for their coaches, she pulled him aside and said, “Fitz, thank you for smoothing the way— I knew I could count on you for it.”

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t find out where Wickham was, except out of the Prince Regent’s favor.”

“We know more than we did before,” said Captain Bennet. “We know why he wanted fifty thousand pounds, and who wants it from him. We know he’s desperate.”

When they arrived at the covert, Mr. Bennet was looking dispiritedly at a map of London, and Miss Bennet was waiting in Captain Bennet’s chambers, brewing tea and somewhat neurotically mending her sister’s linens.

“Jane, you don’t need to repair my shirts,” said Captain Bennet, tossing her cloak over a chair. “We aviators may be in a rough branch of service, but we still have access to seamstresses and washerwomen.”

“I must have something to do,” said Miss Bennet, “or I fear I shall....” She pressed her lips together and stared down at the shirt. It was evident she was struggling for composure, and would not speak until she felt she had gained it. “Well! It is better to be doing something.” She looked up at Colonel Fitzwilliam curiously, seeming unsure if she could speak freely before him.

“Fitz is a good egg, and promised to help,” said Captain Bennet. “He managed to secure us _carte blanche_ from the Foreign Office in going after Wickham. Now all’s left is finding him.”

“The easy part,” said Mr. Bennet dryly.

“Any luck, father?”

“None,” said Mr. Bennet, rubbing his forehead. “I went to speak to Colonel Forster. No one has seen Lydia since she left the house, leaving a note to Mrs. Forster informing her that she was eloping with Captain Wickham. I do not know how she did it. Lydia is the noisiest of my children. Where on earth did she learn stealth?”

“Lydia thought she was eloping?” asked Captain Bennet.

Miss Bennet withdrew a crumpled note from her sewing basket. Captain Bennet took it and read it, muttering to herself, “Oh stupid, stupid Lydia! Foolish girl, how could she— did she not know? Did she not realize...?”

There was a knock at the door; Lieutenant Lucas quietly slid in.

“Hallo Charlotte,” said Elizabeth. “How did you make out at dinner?”

“Fine,” she said. “But it was not on that subject I wished to speak to you.” She pushed the door open to reveal an obviously tipsy Patterson. Patterson attempted to salute.

“My batman,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, by way of explanation. “You have any luck Patterson?”

“It was the manservant’s evening off,” said Patterson. “I had quite a bit o’luck, sir.”

“And I,” said Lieutenant Lucas, “have a plan.”

 

***

 

Captain Wentworth had been recruited, as he was both trustworthy and distractingly good-looking; and Captain Benwick because he looked like the sort of gloomy Romantic who did a lot of opium. Colonel Fitzwilliam led the way, as the person with the poshest accent, who looked most likely to have been to a Carleton House party and to be foolish with money. They dabbed on brandy in lieu of cologne, and processed into the public house singing ‘God Save the King’ and standing everyone who joined in drinks.

It galled Colonel Fitzwilliam extremely to be toasting to the Prince Regent, and it almost seemed a violation of his Whig principles to pronounce the phrase, “Prinny’s such a bang up chap.” Yet he choked it out before burying his face in a pint of the local bitter.

“He does throw a marvelous party,” said Captain Wentworth. “Yes,” he added, with a deliberately dazzling smile at the barmaid, “we _were_ at a party at _Carleton House_.”

She looked awestruck, though Colonel Fitzwilliam didn’t know if it was because of the smile, or the name dropping.

“Bumper after bumper of champagne,” said Captain Benwick glumly.

Colonel Fitzwilliam clapped Captain Benwick on the shoulder. He tried not to make it sound too rehearsed when he said, “What’s this old man? No taste for champagne?”

“I prefer to smoke,” he replied.

“Yes, too bad old wasshisname wasn’t there,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying to sound sympathetic. “I had some of his stuff at Brighton. Simply marvelous. It felt like the top of my head came off. Statues were alive and everything.”

“Wish I had some now,” Captain Benwick said.

A man at the end of the bar turned to look at them curiously. “Pardon me gentlemen, but you weren’t happening to wish for some opium, were you?”

“Why, do you have some?” Captain Benwick asked eagerly.

“Happens I might know someone who does.”

“Have a care,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You don’t want to do any bad stuff. I only ever buy from the Prince Regent’s own supplier. That way I know it’s quality.”

“Happens it might be the same chap,” said the man.

“Oh, wasshisname.... W something. Wickerman?”

“Isn’t it Wickham?” asked Captain Wentworth, turning from the barmaid. “Wickham’s the fellow you were raving about.”

“I’d pay a guinea for a pipe,” said Captain Benwick, in a tone of put-upon wistfulness.

The man was clearly interested now. “Well, gentlemen, you are in luck. For a very small finder’s fee, I can certainly bring you opium got by Mr. Wickham himself.”

Captain Benwick made a production of reaching for his pocket.

“Slow down, old man,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, holding Captain Benwick back. “We don’t _know_ it’s Mr. Wickham. You can’t believe everything some bloke in a pub tells you.”

“I can assure you gentlemen that it is the supplier to the Prince Regent himself.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Captain Wentworth. “Come on, we ought to save the rest of our coin for Covent Garden.” He tossed a couple of guineas onto the bar.

The man stared at the pile of gold and then said, “No, no, I can assure you gentlemen— it is Mr. Wickham. Come, sirs, with me.”

Captain Benwick led the way. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked overhead. It was a clear night, and yet, the stars and moon were blocked from his sight. There was an enormous shadow over them all and the faint sound of wingbeats.

“This way gentlemen,” said the manservant, leading them down into the servants’ entrance of Mrs. Younge’s house. “Right this way— if you will wait in the kitchen, sirs, I shall see if Mr. Wickham is at liberty to receive you.”

“Think this’ll work?” asked Captain Wentworth, eyeing the dirty kitchen, and all the piles of unwashed dishes.

Colonel Fitzwilliam wedged the door open with an overturned bucket, and then waved to a shadowy figure waiting down the street. “He’s desperate for money. We’ve got to hope he’d be eager to sell whatever opium he still has on hand.”

Captain Benwick said, through clenched teeth, “The nerve of Captain Wickham! That poor, innocent young lady—“

“Shh!” said Captain Wentworth. “He’s coming back.”

The manservant came down and held out a hand. “Mr. Wickham is happy to receive you gentlemen.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam flipped him a half-crown. “My thanks for your time, my good man. Do show us up.”

They fortunately did not see Mrs. Younge as they went up the stairs. The servant bowed and vanished as soon as he had opened the door. Captain Benwick went in first, to the cramped little sitting room and threw open the sash window. He whistled, seemingly idly. Captain Wickham came through a side door, saying pleasantly, “Gentlemen! I am told you wish to deal with me particularly?”

Captain Wentworth walked in, which gave Captain Wickham pause. “Have I... sold to you before?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed open the door with his left hand, his right on the pommel of his sword. “No, but you have definitely had dealings with me.”

Captain Wickham blanched. “I—”

Captain Benwick blocked the door to the bedroom; Wollstonecraft’s giant eye appeared in the window and glared balefully at Mr. Wickham. “You will not escape,” said Wollstonecraft.

Captain Wickham made a mad dash for the hall.

He dodged Captain Wentworth and flung himself at Colonel Fitzwilliam. There was a brief and unsuccessful struggle; Colonel Fitzwilliam was pushed into a wall, the breath knocked out of him. Captain Wickham raced to the stairs, only to run straight into Captain Bennet’s outstretched fist.

“Captain Wickham,” she said pleasantly, as Captain Wickham stumbled back, clutching his nose. “We meet again. I wish I could say it was a pleasure.”

Captain Wentworth seized Wickham and held his arms behind his back. “Got ‘im, captain.”

“Thank you Wentworth! Now,” said Captain Bennet, drawing her sword and putting the tip at Wickham’s throat, “where is my sister?”

“Here!” came a young woman’s voice. “Here! Oh Lizzy— please, he said we were going to elope—”

Captain Bennet glared up at Wickham, who gave her a weak and bloody smile. “I’m sure he told you so.”

“—but he is a cheat and liar and he never intended to marry me at all!”

“Yes, we realized that. Come out Lydia, I’ll take you home.”

“I cannot,” said Miss Lydia, after a moment.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of Lydia, we know he tricked you. Papa will receive you. None of this will get out. We shall say you got very ill last night and asked to be taken home.”

“No, it’s not that,” said Miss Lydia, exasperated. “ _I_ did nothing wrong. It is only that I tried to climb out the window, so Captain Wickham tied me to my chair.”

Lydia Bennet now seemed very much like Captain Bennet’s sister.

Captain Benwick gasped and rushed into the bedroom, emerging a few moments later with a surprisingly tall young woman in a disheveled traveling costume. She limped a little, and had to lean on Captain Benwick’s arm.

Captain Bennet did not look away from Captain Wickham. “I suppose you thought that because I was a dragon captain, you could get away with abducting my sister. Let me tell you sir, what you thought a weakness is a strength. My men have found you and captured you; and I myself have stopped you. My co-leader in the division secured me _carte blanche_ in capturing you.” She pressed the tip of her blade into his throat. “Underestimate me at your peril.”

“I yield,” said Captain Wickham, meekly.

 

***

 

They locked Captain Wickham into a cell at the covert, usually used to hold drunk aviators, and posted sentries outside. Miss Bennet had swept her youngest sister up in her arms and up to Captain Bennet’s chambers.

“I feel like I need to scrub myself with vinegar after that,” said Captain Wentworth, with a disdainful shudder. “God, what an awful fellow. And I didn’t much fancy playafting as the young buck about town.”

“I do hope the young lady will be well,” said Captain Benwick, staring mournfully up at Captain Bennet’s window. Captain Wentworth and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged droll looks. “How nobly she bore up against such painful suffering—such resourcefulness—such fire—“

“Typical,” said Captain Wentworth, though it was said fondly.

“Hm?” said Captain Benwick.

“Nothing,” said Captain Wentworth, cheerfully clapping Captain Benwick on the shoulder.

Captain Benwick started.

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt the sort of giddiness that sometimes develops after a battle and sleeplessness and tried very hard not to laugh. “I better alert Lord Mornington.”

Lord Mornington was extremely pleased to hear of Wickham’s being taken into custody, for, as he admitted to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “I have no idea how we would have explained it to the Chinese embassy. Things are not going... well.” Then he hesitated and said, “I hate to ask yet more of you, but...”

“But you need my sister-in-law,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Lady Stornoway would be invaluable in this point in the proceedings,” admitted Lord Mornington. “Here’s pen and paper. If you will write her a letter, I will have a dragon courier ready by the time you have finished it.”

“Will you allow me to use the courier to send a letter to my cousin as well? He is staying with my sister-in-law in Kent.”

“Oh yes, if you can finish it within a quarter of an hour.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam scribbled out an account of the evening to Marjorie, asking her to come to London, to help gather information and smooth negotiations. To Darcy he wrote, ‘Wickham locked up at the London covert; all’s well.’

He awoke the next morning to see his sister-in-law at the breakfast table and, rather more unexpectedly, Darcy and Georgiana.

“Coffee or tea?” Marjorie asked, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.

“Coffee,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, sitting down at the table. “Are my parents up yet?”

“You’ve missed them. They are such early risers; they received us when we stepped out of the carriage. They’ve gone up with Stornoway to see the children.”

He looked over at Darcy and Georgiana, who looked travelworn and tired.

Darcy nodded, and Georgiana, eyes filling with tears said, “Is it— is it true that Mr. Wickham has been arrested?”

“Yes.”

After a moment Georgiana said, “I— I need to see him locked up myself.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam set down his cup of coffee. “Georgiana, I’m not sure—”

Georgiana crumpled in on herself.

“Richard,” said Marjorie, in the same tones he used to calm a fretting horse. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Darcy. Georgiana lived through some truly terrible things. Allow her to have some closure on them; to see that that chapter of her life is well and truly over.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam struggled with himself. His instinct to shield Georgiana from the horrors of the world was very strong but, he reminded himself, he had not done a spectacular job of that in the past. He looked to Darcy.

Darcy said, “Georgiana is old enough to know what she needs.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Right then. After breakfast I have to go to the covert anyhow. Georgiana, Darcy, pray come with me. Marjorie, are you...?”

She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “I’m to Apsley House to talk with Lord Mornington.”

The Darcys did not react as badly to being on the London covert as Colonel Fitzwilliam had feared. They clung to each other and looked around wide-eyed, but said nothing.

Captain Bennet, looking exhausted, stared uncomprehendingly at the Darcys. “Uh.”

“Georgiana had her own dealings with Wickham, and....”

“Ah,” said Captain Bennet, comprehension dawning. “Lydia had to go and make sure he was locked away herself. I understand. We’ve about ten minutes before all the Chinese aviators arrive at the covert for a tour.”

“Blast,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam and then, spotting Gowing, signaled to him and said, “Gowing, I need a favor. We locked up Mr. Wickham last night—”

“Good!” burst out Gowing.

“—right. As he’s been smuggling opium and the Chinese government doesn’t look kindly on that. Would you take my cousin, Mr. Darcy, and his sister to the cells?”

Gowing bowed and agreed at once.

“I hope you’re seeing him in your official position as a magistrate of Derbyshire,” exclaimed Gowing to Darcy.

Colonel Fitzwilliam hadn’t much time to think on this, or on the Darcys, for as soon as the Chinese embassy arrived, he was on constant display, and part of the terrified diplomacy of a large number of British officials far out of their depth. No one was particularly happy with anything. The Chinese embassy thought the aerial base appalling. The aviators were offended to have these foreigners judging their arrangements. The British government was miserable at the thought of another warfront. The soldiers were all unhappy to be standing at attention all day and then being forced into practice manouevers.

When the visit was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam fell asleep as soon as he got in the carriage, waking only to force himself up to his bedroom, to nap before dinner. On the stairs he passed Georgiana, who looked subdued and fretful.

He put a hand to her shoulder. “You alright, Georgiana?”

“I don’t know,” Georgiana admitted. “He... I think perhaps I shouldn’t have asked Fitzwilliam to talk to Mr. Wickham on my own, for Mr. Wickham said I was... I was to blame for his falling in with the opium smugglers.”

“Georgiana, it wasn’t and isn’t your fault that Mr. Wickham makes terrible life choices,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You did not force him to go fifty thousand pounds in debt and then threaten a dragon captain for that amount or its equivalent.”

“What?” asked Georgiana, blankly.

‘Dammit,’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘Darcy didn’t tell her.’

“We arrested Mr. Wickham because he was smuggling opium,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam carefully, “but he... he tried to extort a dragon captain for the money he owed his suppliers.”

“Why did he try to blackmail a dragon captain?” Georgiana asked, bewildered. “They aren’t very well paid. And they have dragons.”

“I suppose on the grounds that dragons all have hoards. They don’t. But aerial captains are paid at the same rate as we poor infantryman, which... admittedly, is not very well. Odd considering how much dragons are worth.”

“How much are they worth?”

“A Longwing egg is worth fifty thousand pounds.”

Georgiana looked troubled and said, “Richard, I... I feel as if Mr. Wickham thinks he will escape. He... he wasn’t very sorry, or very afraid. He seemed... it was almost as if he was satisfied to be locked up at the covert. I told him that he would be locked away for a very long time and he laughed at me.”

He felt too stupid with tiredness to parse this, or to give any explanation for Mr. Wickham’s behavior. “How could he escape, Georgiana? He’s got a Regal Copper, a Longwing, two Yellow Reapers, and a hoard of feral dragons from somewhere near the Ottoman Empire surrounding him.”

“I don’t know,” said Georgiana, growing tearful and vexed, “it’s just... he said things....”

“What things?”

“Nothing specific,” said Georgiana, frustrated. “I just—I _know_ him. He has something planned.”

He stifled a yawn. “Nothing he can act on, given the circumstances. I’m sorry Georgiana, I’m dead on my feet. After I’ve had a rest, we can talk again.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam woke from his nap to find a note from Marjorie. She, the female aviators, and all the Chinese aerial corps, were having an informal drinking party at Vauxhall Gardens. Marjorie had once said that she got her best information being sober at parties where everyone else was drunk, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was glad to see that someone competent was at last taking this dreadful situation in hand.

His batman informed him that the Darcys were still at Matlock House, talking quietly in one of the parlors; his niece and nephew with their governess; and his parents and brother in grim conversation with their steward. Colonel Fitzwilliam thanked Pattinson and gave him the evening off, as thanks for all his help yesterday.

Also, thought Colonel Fitzwilliam a little guilty, as he put on riding boots, an old pair of doeskin riding breeches, a comfortable old cambric shirt, and his hunting waistcoat, he was tired of being around people. He was going to steal another one of Julian’s four horse club handkerchiefs instead of bothering with a cravat, and make his horse do stupid tricks for an hour. It had been a vexing couple of days in a very vexing couple of months. He deserved to look and act ridiculous, and to think of pleasing only himself.

Perrault was still at Rosings Park, but Dulcinea was glad to see him and tossed her beribboned mane at him.

“Hm,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, surveying this.

“Miss Darcy was with her,” reported one of the stablehands. “After she come back from the aerial covert, sir.”

There were worse ways for his charge to deal with her anxieties, thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, and mounted his horse. Dulcinea responded like a dream to his hand on the reins, or the barest tap of bootheels. She reared and held them, she spun, she bowed—and soon Colonel Fitzwilliam found his mind drifting.

Despite his determination to think only of himself for an hour, he found himself thinking of Georgiana. He was not happy with how he’d handled that conversation on the staircase. He had been exhausted, but he could have been politer. She was clearly upset if the number of ribbons on Dulcinea were any indication.

And the last time he hadn’t listened to Georgiana about Wickham—

He paused, struck with this, and Dulcinea held her rear.

“Sorry,” he said automatically. Dulcinea dropped down and tossed her head side to side in exasperation.

The last time he hadn’t listened to Georgiana about Wickham had been disastrous. What had bothered Georgiana? That Wickham had laughed when Georgiana said he would be locked away for a long time— and Georgiana had been surprised that Wickham had tried to blackmail a dragon captain.

The reins dropped from Colonel Fitzwilliam’s hands.

Wickham had wanted fifty thousand pounds, or its equivalent. Its _equivalent_ , which Captain Bennet herself had called the full price of Longwing egg. Wickham owed money to a gang of smugglers whose main export, opium, would either soon lose its market, or cause them to be put to death very painfully by the Emperor of China, as it was clear the British government was the weaker party and going to agree to anything to avoid engaging in yet another war. What did the Chinese actually value— perhaps even more than silver?

Dragons.

Wickham had submitted so easily because he had wanted a dragon egg.

Georgiana had been right. Wickham was exactly where he wanted to be. He _was_ planning on escaping.

“Open the gates!” Colonel Fitzwilliam called.

The stablehand who had been hanging about, oiling a harness, dropped this to the cobblestones and immediately ran do so.

Colonel Fitzwilliam gathered up the reins again and touched his heels to Dulcinea. They bolted from the courtyard of Matlock House, flying down the streets to the covert. All the while, he kept thinking to himself, ‘I’m overreacting. I must be.’

But he wasn’t. When he was three blocks away he heard the noise of a terrible explosion. Then, roaring fit to shake the cobblestones. An enormous dragon, a kind he had never seen before, rose up and into the air, followed shortly by the hastily-rigged and sparsely manned Attia and Laconia. The unknown dragon flew up into the clouds.

Colonel Fitzwilliam calmed Dulcinea as best as he could and then rode into the covert. He was greeted with a scene of utter chaos. Several buildings were on fire. The aviators remaining on the covert were running about, trying to locate water and buckets; Antiope was injured; the surgeons were hastily throwing together operating tents; the ferals had been trapped in a series of nets that Wollstonecraft was trying to tear open with her talons.

After leaping off Dulcinea, and tying her reins to a post, he recognized the high, whistling cry Gherni made when distressed. He was instantly moved. Colonel Fitzwilliam was still in his hunting clothes; he had a knife in his waistcoat pocket, and without much thinking about it, ran to the netted ferals and began cutting a hole. Gherni managed to squirm close and croaked out noises that made Colonel Fitzwilliam feel the worst sort of fool for not having guessed this would have happened, for not having realized that he had played right into Captain Wickham’s trap, for not having realized how easily and quickly they’d been led to Captain Wickham’s rooms.

Gherni darted through the hole in the net and nearly knocked him over, nuzzling him in thanks and trying to communicate through clicks and whistles, just what had happened.

“Captain Wickham has stolen a number of eggs sired by Arkady’s flock,” translated Wollstonecraft. “We must find him—I must find Lizzy.”

“Are her sisters and father—“

“They are in Gracechurch Street,” said Wollstonecraft. “They are not here.” Then, with a gleam of amusement, she said, “That is why Captain Benwick is not here either.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam grasped onto Gherni’s harness and drew himself upright, searching for any members of Wollstonecraft’s crew. He spotted Lieutenant Alleyene, holding his cravat to his bleeding leg, his expression taut with pain.

“I take it,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that Captain Wickham has escaped.”

“With a new clutch of courier weight eggs we were preparing to ship to the training grounds in Scotland,” said Lieutenant Alleyene. “I don’t know how he managed to get that information.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam thought quickly as he rubbed Gherni’s scaley head. Then he swore under his breath. “Mrs. Younge’s house is right across from a pub by the covert. Tell me, Alleyene— the midwingmen, where do they go to drink?”

Lieutenant Alleyene gave the name of the pub Colonel Fitzwilliam, Captain Wentworth, and Captain Benwick had gone to just the night before.

“And of course all of them would be boasting to the barmaid that they had a shot at being a dragon captain for one of the new courier weights,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “Wickham knew what he was doing.”

“Captain Bennet and Lieutenant Lucas are with the Chinese dragon captains,” said Lieutenant Alleyene, fumbling with his swordbelt. “The midwingmen were all given the evening off. All the officers here are occupied or injured.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at him quizzically.

“Wollstonecraft’s our only acid-spitter, sir,” said Lieutenant Alleyne, holding out his sword. “The ferals can be sent to find Captain Bennet and Lieutenant Lucas. But I cannot fly— sir, you’re the highest ranking officer present. You must go in pursuit of Wickham.”

“Yes, but....” He gestured vaguely. “I have my horse.”

Lieutenant Alleyne lowered his shaking hand and looked at him as if he were mad. “Captain Wickham escaped on a dragon.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam swallowed. His throat had transmuted itself into sandpaper. Fear caused such curious alchemical changes.

Wollstonecraft lowered her head down. “Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said, gravely, formally, sounding rather like his cousin Darcy, “you must climb aboard.” A runner was already coming towards Colonel Fitzwilliam with a spare harness.

His hands shook as he took his carabiner belt. He did not know how he managed to step into it, since his legs felt like water. To fly on Wollstonecraft with Captain Bennet or her crew— that was fine. They would not let him fall or be accidentally injured, or hook on improperly. There was a comfort, a safety in being surrounded by officers and military jargon. There were dangers, yes, but dangers faced together, with proper discipline, and with proper procedure.

But on his own?

‘Why me?’ he thought miserably, taking Lieutenant Alleyne's sword, and a couple of pistols another runner offered him. ‘Why must I fly alone on dragon back, with no plan, with none of my men or my officers? For God’s sake, I’m almost charging into single combat! I’ve never been good at single combat!’

“I shall not let any injury come to you,” Wollstonecraft promised, as he tightened the belt about his waist. “I promise.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to master his fear. He had seen Captain Bennet reach out many times and put her hand upon her dragon’s nose, between the bone spurs full of acid, and above the sharp, serrated teeth. He could not actually make himself do this, but he closed his eyes and held out his hand.

With surprising gentleness, Wollstonecraft gently moved her nose, so that it met the palm of his hand.

She said, “It is more than my duty to protect you, colonel. You humans often say that dragons will fight to the death to protect their treasure. Mine has always been my crew, and my formation— now it is my division.”

He opened his eyes. In the great, cat-like black slits of Wollstonecraft’s eyes, he saw himself reflected: a comparatively tiny figure, scarred and scared, but despite the fears born of experience and human teaching, willing to fight through it in pursuit of what he knew to be right.

“I ask for your trust, colonel,” said Wollstonecraft, “knowing full well that nothing you have ever been taught encourages you to think this a good idea. But I should hope your own observations of the world have challenged those lessons enough that you are willing to try.”

“I am,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, his voice still shaking. Into his memory flashed Captain Bennet leaning down with hand extended, her queue of dark hair falling over one gold epauletted shoulder. At a certain point, one had to trust. One had to leap in order to fly.

He put his hand to Wollstonecraft’s harness.

He climbed up.

He hooked in.

Then, with a running leap, Wollstonecraft launched herself into the air.

 

***

 

The ferals had risen up with them and peeled away to the bright lights of Vauxhall. Gherni and Winge held spare harnesses in their claws. For the first time, Colonel Fitzwilliam was alone, aloft, with Wollstonecraft. To his shock, it wasn’t so bad.

The sun was setting. The clouds were little more than swirls of pink and gold. He had the impression of diving headfirst into one of those incomprehensible modernist paintings Darcy so liked, by Turner. Colonel Fitzwilliam found, as he stared at the color streaking across the sky, as if watching an artist at their work, that he was curiously unafraid. It was not the same freedom of being on horseback but it was something very like—of knowing that in trusting another creature so deeply, he had defied the ordinary laws governing man. Collins Fitzwilliam began to see why Captains Bennet and Wentworth and all the other aviators spoke of flying as if it were something magical. The world seemed purer, clearer. He could even forget, for a minute, what it was that brought him aloft; what mistakes he had repeated; what dangers he could expect to face when he landed.

It was only after he had spent a few more glorious moments being amazed by the clear sky that he realized: ‘no, the sky shouldn’t be clear.’

“Um,” he said. “I can’t see Attia and Laconia. Can you?”

“I see them,” said Wollstonecraft grimly.

“I don’t have my telescope with me,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, helplessly.

“I never understand how humans survive without dragons looking after them,” said Wollstonecraft. “You are such defenseless creatures.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself laughing inappropriately. “Well, I suppose to you we must seem so. We aren’t born with any weapons the way you are.”

Then, perhaps fearing she had been impolite, Wollstonecraft said, “You are marvelously inventive, though. You make yourself scales and talons, and tusks that spit powder and shot instead of acid. Someday I am sure you shall think up how to make yourselves wings.”

“Someday,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, shuddering, “but hopefully that day comes when I am retired to a country estate and breeding horses, and will not have to test wings out myself.”

“Is that what you want out of life? To breed horses in the countryside?”

Suddenly, Colonel Fitzwilliam realized it was. “Yes. I mean—I am... I think I am of most service where I am, but I’m... I’m not a naturally combative person.”

“Lizzy has often remarked on the irony that a man so much a diplomat and peacemaker as yourself was put into the army.”

“There weren’t any livings for me,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “so I couldn’t become a clergyman. And my father thought I was too active to enjoy the law. So the army it was. I don’t... I suppose it sounds silly to you, but it never really occurred to me that there were other options.”

“What is a living?”

“It’s uh....” Colonel Fitzwilliam scratched his chin. “A living is... a parish a benefactor assigns you to, which guarantees you an income and a home for your lifetime, as a clergyman. But I’m not sure if I would have enjoyed making sermons. I never make speeches to my men.” But after a moment he admitted, for the first time, “I envy the life my cousin Darcy leads. Not his wealth, though there are moments where I do envy his wealth, but... just... he’s never had to kill anyone to profit someone else. He’s never had to struggle to make the least immoral choice in a morass of immoral choices. There are no periods of his life he looks back on with shame.”

“And this,” Wollstonecraft asked curiously, “is what you think your time in the army has been? Morally confusing and shameful?”

“Not all of the time,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. In the weightless void of the sky where there was nothing but abstract color, and no other humans about, all the tethers of ordinary life seem stripped away. He found himself speaking and thinking with unaccustomed freedom. “But I... if I survive the war, I would like a life where I don’t have to worry about killing another human being. Horses may be full of evil intentions and eat anything they’re not supposed to, if you take your eyes off them for a minute, but they don’t... they don’t spend their time inventing new and more painful ways of killing each other, the way humans do. Do dragons ever wish they were not part of the military?”

“Some do, but then they have no captains,” said Wollstonecraft. “They are put in the breeding grounds.” After a moment, Wollstonecraft said, “I never believed Temeraire, but the Chinese dragons told me that most of the dragons in their country do not fight. They are builders and scholars. They trade things and grow things. I have seen dragons assisting with trade, in the Americas, but none of them were fighting weight. Apparently in China dragons my size—why they can be anything they wish. They can be part of the _government_ , even.”

“It didn’t really seem a choice, going into the military,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “It was only later that I ever realized it wasn’t the only option.”

“I understand,” said Wollstonecraft.

“I think you do,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, shocked.

“When this is over,” said Wollstonecraft, “will you allow me to visit your horse farm?”

“If I ever have capital enough to found one,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, laughing. “Yes. Yes, I shall.”

They heard the whistling croaks and cries of the ferals, and a number of them landed on Wollstonecraft’s back. Captain Bennet stumbled off of Winge, and Lieutenant Lucas off Gherni. They were both mildly intoxicated, and in full dress uniform. 

Captain Bennet was staring at him as if she had never seen him before.

He was not sure which shocking thing he ought to explain first—his informal dress, his being alone on Wollstonecraft’s back, her abduction from the middle of tricky diplomatic negotiations, Wickham’s escape, the stolen eggs—and settled on a facetious, “Nice evening for flying, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” said Captain Bennet, hooking into Wollstonecraft’s harness.

“Low chance of rain,” agreed Lieutenant Lucas, doing the same.

There fell a slightly awkward pause.

“So Lieutenant Alleyne sent me this very blood-stained note via Gherni,” said Captain Bennet, holding it aloft. “I just want to be sure I read this correctly—a team of opium smugglers broke Captain Wickham out of his jail cell, stole ten courier-weight dragon eggs, and are now flying for presumably the coast with Attia, Laconia, and Wollstonecraft in pursuit?”

“Are ten courier weight dragon eggs the equivalent of about fifty thousand pounds?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte.

“Then yes, ten courier-weight dragon eggs.”

Wollstonecraft said, “Lizzy, Attia and Laconia are engaging already.”

Captain Bennet put her hand to Wollstonecraft’s neck. “How fast can you go, dearest? Can you catch up with them?”

Wollstonecraft snorted. “Of course I can. Hold onto my harness.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam gripped on tightly.

By the time they reached the other dragons, Laconia had bit down hard on the wing membrane of the dragon, and Attia was trying to attack the other side.

Unfortunately, Wickham and all his friends where abandoning ship... onto another. They were parachuting down to a barge below them, in the Thames. The ferals, except for Gherni and Winge, who were still resting on Wollstonecraft’s back, put on a burst of speed to try and catch the parachuters.

“God damn,” said Captain Bennet. “These smugglers are something else! Is that their barge, or do you think they’re just taking over it?”

“Taking over it,” said Lieutenant Lucas, hanging off Wollstonecraft’s side for a better look. “That does not look like an optimal mode of transportation.”

Just then two men leapt off the unknown dragon’s back, each holding onto the handles of a large wicker basket.

“The eggs,” Captain Bennet cried. “All the other ferals are fighting—Gherni, Winge—“

“No,” said Wollstonecraft. “Winge and Gherni cannot get there in time. The men will be on the barge with the eggs by the time they fly far enough to be of any use.”

“Right then,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, unclipping himself from Wollstonecraft and onto Gherni’s collar. “Gherni, take me onto the barge.”

“You’re not going alone,” declared Captain Bennet, swinging herself up on Winge. “Wollstonecraft, circle the barge, stay as close as you can and keep the other dragon from getting us, or anymore smugglers from joining our friends on the barge.”

“Lizzy,” said Lieutenant Lucas, exasperated, “you can’t risk your life like this!”

“Charlotte, which one of the two of us is the best fencer in the division?”

Lieutenant Lucas struggled with herself and then said, “I... oh _be careful_ , Lizzy.”

Gherni and Winge chirruped their agreement and launched themselves off of Wollstonecraft’s back. Colonel Fitzwilliam at first attempted to hold onto Gherni as if he was riding a horse, but Captain Bennet yelled over to him, “Head down, grip onto her collar—and legs up if you can!”

This make him feel rather more secure, and, to his amazement, the speed at which they were approaching the ground began to fill him with a sense of dizzying exhilaration, not unlike when he was nearing the end of a hunt and was at the front of the pack. They landed hard enough to rock the boat. It was an old barge, made of more splinter than wood, and Wickham and four other men with parachutes had tied up the three thoroughly bewildered original crewmembers. Gherni and Winge ran full tilt towards the wicker basket of eggs before one of the smugglers began smacking them away with a barge pole.

Wickham broke off and ran up to the captain’s deck.

“Go after him!” Captain Bennet shouted, as she punched a smuggler in the stomach.

“It’s four to one here,” Colonel Fitzwilliam objected.

“Four to one and two dragons,” Captain Bennet pointed out, drawing her sword. “And really, do you count me as _one_? Tsk.”

“Good point,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. He dashed up the steps to the captain’s deck, drawing his sword and calling out, “Wickham! Wickham! Turn and fight me like a gentleman!”

This was a stupid argument; he regretted it as soon as he said it.

Wickham looked heavenward and said, “Fine. I owe you for this—” gesturing at his chin “—anyhow.” He drew his sword. “I might as well entertain myself before my associates finish having their fun down there.”

There comes a terrible point in any man’s life where he realizes that all the practice in the world is not going to make up for a lack of aptitude. Colonel Fitzwilliam had realized that fairly early on in his bouts with Captain Bennet, and was just making the discovery anew, as, within seconds Wickham relentlessly beat him back, parrying every thrust and ignoring every feint.

‘Oh hell,’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam miserably. ‘Why did they ever let me become a colonel? I can’t in the least hold my own in hand-to-hand combat.’

He brought his sword across almost a second too slowly; he narrowly beat aside Wickham’s sword, and lost a button off his waistcoat in the process.

Colonel Fitzwilliam fought to keep Wickham’s sword pinned against the railing of the boat, but grew distracted as his button arced over the side of the ship and into the Thames. 'This can't be how I die,' thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, with a marked increase in misery.

With a truly startling show of brute force, Mr. Wickham forced up his sword and unbalanced Colonel Fitzwilliam entirely. Colonel Fitzwilliam stumbled and fell, landing hard on his back. The wind was entirely knocked out of him.

Wickham loomed above and said, “However did _you_ make colonel?” He raised his arm.

‘Definitely more of a stabbing motion,’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘Time to move.’

He reached for the railing and, seizing it, pulled himself towards it in a sort of clumsy, sideways pull-up. It was rather a different strength of arms than Wickham had been expecting. Indeed, Wickham’s blade was stuck in one of the boards making up the deck, about where Colonel Fitzwilliam’s chest had been.

Wickham fought to free it, as Colonel Fitzwilliam fought for breath.

“I forgot,” snarled Wickham, prizing up his sword, and taking the board with it, “you had merely to survive. Pushed men like me to the front, and hid in the back with the colors!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam staggered to his feet just as Wickham pulled free his sword and the board fell back into its slot. Colonel Fitzwilliam wanted badly to make a quip, to take the edge off his own nerves, but Wickham had always been brilliant at knowing where just to press, to charm or to injure. Guilt ate at Colonel Fitzwilliam, as fire through kindling; he _had_ been carefully kept behind the lines. He hadn’t been allowed or encouraged to ever fight like this— better men, better _fighters_ had died before him as he stood safe with the colors—

He clumsily raised his sword in a parry _sixe_ ; Wickham trapped him in a counter parry, moving their swords in a circle which Colonel Fitzwilliam did not have the strength or the breath to break. Each attempt he made caused him to step away from the rail— towards their previous piste—

—over the broken board.

“The only reason,” Wickham sneered, “that you are presently so grand, a favorite of the Duke of Wellington’s, is because you are the son of an Earl, and the grandson of another, who managed to be lucky enough to survive when better men died. You have no skills but your birth.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam suddenly recalled why Wellington said he had been chosen: for the way he thought.

Which was deliberately, taking into consideration all the information at his disposal. And what weapons did he have as his disposal besides his sword? He took quick and efficient stock of his environment and thought, ‘Ah.’

He allowed Wickham to push in, _corps a corps_ , their swords crossed almost at the guards, and then to beat him back. Colonel Fitzwilliam fell back and positioned himself at the far end of the pried up board. Wickham swaggered over; Colonel Fitzwilliam held out his sword deliberately badly, so that Wickham paused just where Colonel Fitzwilliam wanted him.

“Give up, old boy?” sneered Wickham, in his most Etonian accents.

“Never, sir. _En guarde!_ ” Colonel Fitzwilliam took a hard step forward, into proper fencing stance. The splintered end up the board rose up, its trajectory checked only by Wickham’s spread legs.

Wickham emitted an unearthly noise.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped back into first position, feet together at the heel. The board went down and so did Mr. Wickham, who promptly dropped his sword to tend to his injured groin.

“Sorry about that,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, rather too cheerfully. He bent to pick up Wickham’s dropped sword. “But let’s call that partial recompense for what you attempted to do to my ward, Miss Darcy.”

Wickham continued making terrible noises.

Colonel Fitzwilliam slid his own sword into its scabbard and examined Mr. Wickham’s with an air of detached amusement. “But, just a hint, old boy— an officer who’s survived as long as I have in these wars never survives because he is merely _lucky_.”

Wickham wheezed out profanity.

The barge suddenly swung around. Captain Bennet has won her bout as well, it seemed, and freed the originalcrewmen.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was now accustomed enough to being on dragonback to keep his balance and even raise a foot enough to keep Wickham from sliding overboard.

Wickham wheezed out, “What the—”

Colonel Fitzwilliam took an unkind pleasure in leveling Wickham’s own sword at Wickham’s throat, and saying, “Really, Captain Bennet warned you herself: underestimate her at your peril.”

 

***

 

When they arrived at the covert once more the Darcys were there, helping to oversee the clean-up... and so were a number of Chinese aviators. Upon seeing some of the smugglers, they grew very excited, and one of their translators demanded that these men be given into Chinese custody.

“I know this man, and this one,” said the translator, mottled red with anger. “They betray our nation; they poison our country.”

“They’re yours, sir,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam wearily. “Though pray add to their offenses that they tried to steal ten eggs from their dams and sires.” The feral dragons were all crowded noisily about the wicker basket, inspecting the eggs for damage.

All of a sudden, a terrible wail went up.

“What’s happened?” Colonel Fitzwilliam cried.

Wollstonecraft swung her head about and said, quietly, “One of the eggs cracked.”

Georgiana paled. “Is it... is it killed? Did they kill the poor little thing?”

“They do not know,” said Wollstonecraft. “Lizzy, pray, will you take the egg to the baths, where it may be warmed, and have a dragon surgeon look after it?”

She agreed to this at once, and Georgiana ran off after her. Colonel Fitzwilliam followed after. He felt he owed Georgiana an apology and also did not wish her to be alone and upset over the loss of a baby dragon. The three of them sat in the room just off of the steam baths, staring at the egg, which had a large dent in one side, and a huge spiderweb of cracks.

Captain Crawford rushed in with a doctor, who shook his head.

“There’s... still a chance, isn’t there?” Captain Bennet asked, in a voice rough with grief.

“You’ll know in half an hour,” said the doctor. "If there’s no movement by then....”

Captain Bennet took off her coat and cravat and made a nest for the egg. Captain Crawford followed suit and then put her arm about Captain Bennet.

“This all happened while I was division captain,” said Elizabeth, in a rough voice. “How could it... how could I...?”

Then, suddenly, the egg rocked back and forth.

Captains Bennet and Crawford gripped each other.

“Oh, it’s alive!” Georgiana exclaimed, and then burst into tears.

A pale gray head poked out of the crack in the shell. Then it pushed, grunted, and burst from the shell.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Georgiana.

The tiny little dragonet  hobbled out towards them, looking admittedly adorable. It unfurled its wings, so one could see the white striations on the thin membranes. Its right leg was at an odd angle; Captain Bennet sank at once to her knees, eyeing it and then breathed out a huge sigh of relief.

“Broken, but easily reset,” she said. “Thank God!”

“Thank God?” Captain Crawford exclaimed. “If the Admiralty sees this they’ll put it to death!”

The dragonet turned to look over its shoulder and nosed at its leg with a sad little keening sound.

“The poor thing!” Georgiana said, eyes brimming with tears. “They must not— oh that must not be allowed to happen.”

The dragonet turned to look up at Georgiana with milky blue eyes, and said, pitifully, “My leg is not right; please, will you help me?”

Georgiana sat down, legs crossed under her skirt, and gently gathered the dragonet into her lap. “I do not know how, but I will hold you while Captain Bennet does, so that you will not be afraid.”

The dragonet hobbled into her lap and curled up in a tight miserable ball, like a kitten.

“I need a... stick or something—“

“Take my fan,” offered Georgiana, passing it over.

“This will hurt a little,” said Captain Bennet, breaking Georgiana’s fan into pieces, and pulling the ribbon from her hair. The loose waves of her hair spilled over her shoulder. “Stick out your back leg, dearest; I shall mend it for you.”

The dragonet did, with a sad, high whimper. Georgiana was crying, her tears plopping down on the little gray head; she petted the small, scaly body as she might a kitten. “It’s alright,” said Georgiana. “I shan't let anything happen to you; Captain Bennet will fix it for you, I promise.”

Captain Bennet worked both quickly and gently, but the dragon still cried so pitifully even Colonel Fitzwilliam was not unmoved. It kept whimpering even after Captain Bennet had tied the last scrap of ribbon and said, “There, there, you are all fixed; you shall be better presently, I promise you.”

Captain Crawford stood with arms crossed, lips pressed together and asked, “Really, Lizzy? You think you have acted wisely? Who will risk their one chance of promotion on a courier with a limp, who might not be able to land?”

“Have a care what you say!” Captain Bennet snapped.

The dragonet nosed Georgiana’s hand pitifully and said, “The others smell of big dragons but you do not. You are not anyone’s captain, are you? You have been kind; you will not mind I am broken?”

“You are not broken,” said Georgiana, “and I do not mind at all!”

Everyone went so silent, Colonel Fitzwilliam wished he had a pin, so that he might drop it and test the veracity of the cliche.

Into this walked Darcy, who, seeing Georgiana with yet another wounded animal upon her lap said, out of sheer force of habit, “Absolutely not.”

There was only one way this could end.

“But _Fitzwilliam—”_

“Is that,” he asked, in tones of deliberate and icy calm, “or is that not a baby dragon?”

“It is,” admitted Captain Bennet.

The dragon raised its head to Darcy, expression beseeching, eyes the arresting blue of a newborn kitten. Georgiana looked up with an expression of equal pleading.

“No,” said Darcy.

“Oh but _please_ ,” said Georgiana, hugging the dragonet. “Captain Crawford says none of the aviators will risk their step on... him?”

“Him,” said Captain Bennet, peering behind her make-shift cast.

“He needs me,” said Georgiana, wheedlingly. “And he is so small and his leg is broken and he climbed right into my lap, Fitzwilliam, and—”

“You are not getting a dragon as a pet,” said Darcy, flatly.

“Actually,” began Captain Bennet, but Captain Crawford slapped a hand over her mouth.

Georgiana’s lower lip began to tremble.

“Georgiana—”

She turned beseechingly to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You are also my guardian, cousin Richard. _Please_ say I may keep him. He chose me!”

“He did,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, rubbing his forehead. This was not at all how he anticipated his day going. Nor did he quite know how even to summarize the events of the evening in his own head, in order to make sense of just how he got to the point of deciding whether or not his ward might raise a baby dragon.

Darcy threw him an irritated look. “Richard, don't you dare give into her. Kittens and injured sparrows, yes, fine— but this is _a dragon_.”

“Yes, but it chose her,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You do not quite understand the seriousness of this.”

“Nor do I care to. Georgiana, give the beast to Miss Bennet and Miss Crawford—”

“ _Captain_ Bennet and _Captain_ Crawford,” interrupted Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“—and we will go home and forget all this ever happened.”

“Oh please,” said the dragonet anxiously, “do not take _my_ captain. She has not yet even given me a name. I know she is supposed to, and to give me meat, and I am so very hungry, only my leg was hurting so much—”

“ _What_ ,” said Darcy, in a tone of flat incredulity.

“His name,” said Georgiana, definitely, “is—”

“Something in Latin, dear,” whispered Captain Crawford.

“—is... is Delicium.”

The dragon blinked and said, “That is very pretty, what does it mean?”

“It means ‘beloved,’” she replied, “for that is what you are.”

Darcy found himself outmaneuvered. He would do really anything to ensure the happiness of his sister. Colonel Fitzwilliam had never expected him to be pushed as far as this, but could already see his cousin weakening. “Georgiana—”

Delicium made a happy chirping noise and bobbed its head up and down. “Oh! That is very nice! That is so _very_ nice— you are the nicest captain anyone has ever had.”

Captains Bennet and Crawford looked at each other but remained silent.

Georgiana looked pleadingly at Darcy, cradling the dragonet in her arms.

Delicium asked eagerly, “What is your name?”

“It is Georgiana Darcy,” she replied, looking down at the dragon. “And that is my brother Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Those are almost as pretty as ‘Delicium,’” the dragon declared. “It is so nice and it has made me so happy I do not even feel my leg any more. Though I still feel very hungry.”

“Poor little lambkin,” crooned Georgiana.

Darcy was wavering.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed and thought, ‘dear God, what Uncle George would say about the hash I've made of Georgiana's guardianship!’ “Captain Bennet,” he said, quietly, “I know all dragons belong to the crown, but given the circumstances, do you think it possible Georgiana might be permitted to remain outside the Corps, and take her dragon back to Pemberley?”

“Why— it has never been done before, but I suppose—”

Captain Crawford interrupted, “The Chinese aviators are all over the moon about the smugglers. If you ask Prinny for this as a reward, I am sure he will agree.”

Captain Bennet said, “Delicium is a courier-weight. The life of a courier is very different from the life of a formation flyer. And if he cannot land easily, he cannot be a courier, and the Corps will have little use for him....”

Georgianna looked up hopefully at Darcy, and said, “Fitzwilliam— _please_. I will never ask you for anything ever again.”

“I—-”

“Oh please,” the dragonet added, very anxious. “I promise I shall always obey my captain and I will never do anything to displease her. And if you are the head of my captain’s formation, and I shall obey you in all things and be very good. I promise. I will never, ever do anything to make my captain unhappy.”

Georgiana looked up at Darcy, lower lip wobbling.

Darcy gave in. “ _If_ the beast can be brought back to Pemberley and my sister does not have to live with the indignity of being an aerial officer—”

Georgiana rose with a squeal of delight, hugging the dragon to her chest and said, “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ brother! You will not regret it!”

“I am not so certain of that,” he replied, dryly.

***

 

To Colonel Fitzwilliam’s surprise, the negotiations with the Chinese Embassy greatly improved after this. It was the usual pattern of diplomacy, where many formal phrases were repeated, much culture eagerly shoved at the diplomats as if to prove how truly civilized Britain was, and many dinners consumed. The Chinese embassy did not care for any of this, but as they were given the smugglers and the Prince Regent agreed to sign an edict outlawing the opium trade, war was averted. The Chinese Embassy returned home, Wickham and his compatriots stowed within their hold, and promised a greater flow of exports into British ports.

Securing the injured baby dragon for Georgiana was a trice after that.

“Really,” said Darcy, exasperated, “could you not have asked for a knighthood instead?”

“Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana scolded him, from where she said cross-legged by the fire, the dragonet curled up in her lap.

Darcy sighed and instead of eating his last tea biscuit, tossed it to the dragonet, which caught it out of the air and scarfed it down eagerly.

“Oh yes, that was my big ask,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “My settling for my ward becoming responsible for an injured dragon was a remarkable piece of diplomacy. Marjorie thought it up.”

“Of course,” said Darcy, absently rubbing the baby dragon’s head.

Colonel Fitzwilliam left Darcy House and got back on Dulcinea. She had forgiven him for leaving her with a runner at the covert, but it had taken quite a few sugar cubes, and she was sulky about her tricks now.

“I know, I know,” he said, patting her neck, as he rode back to the covert. “My offenses are great indeed. Ah, Benwick, hallo!”

Captain Benwick had Miss Lydia on his arm and was insensible to the rest of the world, but Miss Lydia waved at him and said, “Lizzy got a letter, colonel!”

He rode over to Wollstonecraft’s pavilion and raised his hat. Dulcinea automatically pawed the ground and bowed.

“What pretty manners you always have,” said Wollstonecraft approvingly.

“Hello Fitz,” said Captain Bennet, not moving from where she was sprawled on Wollstonecraft’s forearm, or looking away from her letter.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You have the prettiest manners of everyone I know,” said Captain Bennet. She waved her letter at him. "I've orders from Admiral Roland, now the Chinese Amabssador Extraordinary is sailing home."

“A remarkable coincidence; I’ve marching orders from Wellington,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, taking hers and passing over his own.

“Wellington's handwriting is so much better than Roland’s,” lamented Captain Bennet. “I can tell in a trice where you are to go and when. It took reading Admrial Roland’s letter three times before realizing my division is to return to Spain in a fortnight.”

“Wellington favors efficiency. If he could send me orders via telepathy I think he would.”

Captain Bennet laughed. “But you do not mind your orders? You were not secretly wishing to be ordered to stay here?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled, “Spain will be restful after this sojourn in England.”

“True enough.” She smiled as they took back their own sets of orders which, though very differently expressed, had the same aims. In a trice she was up on Wollstonecraft’s back, and then, leaning over the side, offered him a hand up.  “Shall we make ready, colonel?”

He took it again; took it as he always knew he would. “Aye, aye, Captain Bennet.”

 

FIN

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Aviatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998576) by [Phyloxena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phyloxena/pseuds/Phyloxena)




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